The Stone Series
by et2brute
Summary: In which Steve is trying to find a place for himself in the twenty-first century, Tony is appallingly unfaithful to Pepper, and Loki returns to earth, joins the Avengers, and does not quite seek redemption or absolution. Sex, angst, and mutant civil rights, and doing the wrong things for the right reasons (and the right things for the wrong reasons)
1. Part I: Room by Room

**The Stone Series: Part I  
****Room by Room**

From Captain America's SHIELD file, Tony learns the following:

That Steve Rogers weighed about eighty-seven pounds before Erskine and Tony's dad administered the serum; that he was asthmatic; that he'd had a whole host of childhood and adolescent illnesses, in addition to his ongoing battle with colds and sinus infections; that his heart and nervous system were not in any sort of condition to support a soldier's lifestyle; and that he was prone to getting the utter _shit_ kicked out of him. On a regular basis.

Mostly because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.

But after the serum, Tony reads on, it was as though Rogers were a new man. As though every damaged part of him had fallen away like magic. A clean slate.

He became physiologically perfect; he did not experience the effects of mind-altering drugs or alcohol because of his enhanced metabolism; he could heal at a much faster rate than normal men.

He still picked fights with bullies. He just started winning them.

From Howard Stark, Tony learned very little. This, other than that his dad was friends with Steve Rogers, is all he knows: Howard helped create Captain America and died still searching for him.

It was a greater gesture of esteem than he ever made for Tony.

* * *

It's buttfuck-o'clock a.m. on the morning after Tony was supposed to be having fantastic victory sex with Pepper, possibly in his sprawling living room with the huge windows and excellent lighting, but more likely in his bedroom with the lights _off_ because Pepper, whatever, gets shy. Even though she's stupidly pretty and Tony's the one with weird shit installed in his body.

So instead of maybe waking Pepper up to some lovin' (she can be loose and relaxed and agreeable when she's half-asleep, every inch of self-consciousness drained entirely from her body, it's fucking beautiful), he's fact-checking the incident reports and biographies provided by SHIELD, because spies are filthy liars. They never give you enough information to be useful—just enough to make you dangerous, to form incorrect assumptions because you don't have enough _data_. He's mostly got the others squared away (Natasha-who-is-not-really-Natalie is absolutely not an Information Specialist, she's definitely a goddamned assassin; Doctor Bruce Banner's actually in West Bengal, not the Philippines, who is Fury trying to fool?), but this last search is dragging on and _on_.

"JARVIS," he asks, pressing his palms into his burning eyes because _fuck_, it's almost four in the morning and, for all his efforts, he isn't even getting a _blowjob_ until whenever-Pepper-gets-back-from-DC. "Is it really so hard to pull a credit history on this guy?"

"I apologize, sir. My resources are momentarily divided."

Tony blinks behind his fingers, then peeks through them at the screen. "What else are you doing?"

There's a faint pause while Tony yawns, and then JARVIS replies, "I am discussing Van Gogh with Miss Potts, sir."

"Huh. Like, on her mobile?"

"Her tablet, sir. She is having dinner."

"Jesus," Tony sighs, because she's probably been in meetings since her plane touched down. He'd meant to feed her at some point, he really had—he'd just gotten caught up in the Tower, and how they were self-sustaining geniuses, and that they'd finally put aside some time for uninterrupted, well, all those gorgeous things Pepper'd whispered to him before gallivanting off with Coulson. Because she's cruel and mean-spirited and assumes he can work with a raging boner.

"What's she having for dinner?"

"Mixed seasonal fruit salad with a raspberry vinaigrette, sir."

"Isn't she allergic—?"

"Strawberries, sir."

"Right." Tony pages through the files projected into his living room, just sort of hanging out and being brilliant and high-tech, since that's Tony's thing. "What's she saying about Van Gogh?"

"Nothing that would interest you, sir," JARVIS says.

"Try me," Tony shoots back, skimming the annotations on Banner's spec sheets again.

"Specifically, _Blossoming Almond Tree_. It is one of her particular favorites. She was explaining to me the use of thick black outlines to call attention to the foreground, while the rest of the image fades out to appear half-formed and nebulous. Like the connection between human attention and human vision, sir." He pauses briefly, and Tony is startled to wonder if it's because he's talking to Pepper on the other side. "A person will focus on one or two things that catch their initial interest, and use that as a context for their understanding of the rest of the piece."

Okay, art. Ton can handle that. JARVIS has even brought up a display of the painting. It's nice. Tony can see what they mean, he totally gets that your brain compiles visual information out of what you're focusing on, and not necessarily everything that's there. "Why wouldn't I like that?"

"You sold it, sir."

Tony winces. Pepper's probably never forgiven him for the whole art-collection-thing—the part where they don't have it anymore, not the part where he gave her full authority to collect to her heart's content. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were secretly trying to steal my girl behind my back, Jay."

"Undoubtedly, sir. Here is the information on Captain Rogers."

* * *

Thanks to JARVIS, Tony touches down in Stuttgart, Germany, with the supplemental knowledge that Steve Rogers has spent the last few months holed up in a Brooklyn apartment near an old corner store and a small, dated fitness center. He hasn't made any friends; to all appearances, he doesn't seem to want to.

Which, okay. People are overrated much of the time. But the deep-seated need for human contact is grievously _under_rated, and these are the main reasons Tony's had lots of one-night stands, but has only managed one actual relationship. But his one actual relationship is inspiring and emotionally fulfilling, and Tony is a better person for it; the fact that Pepper does most of the work involved, and that she's probably getting a shit deal out of this in the long run, does not escape him.

It's actually something he consciously takes for granted.

The thing is, Pepper's very sharp. She's so sharp, she's so intuitive and organized, that Tony knows she'll eventually come to her senses and leave his ass.

But the other thing is, Pepper's loved him for years. He doesn't really see that changing anytime soon.

You need people in your life to keep you from going insane and to save you from horrible, gut-churning depression. It is Tony's learned opinion that Steve Rogers has chosen a very poor way to start life in the twenty-first century, and he'd honestly like to help with that. Since he's such a stand-up guy and everyone else is really dropping the fucking ball.

SHIELD must have an abominable research department if the only thing they'd thought to play on the radio, the day Rogers woke up, was a recording of a baseball game he'd actually _attended_. JARVIS could've done about three hundred times better; JARVIS even said so when he'd pulled the report.

Tony hopes someone was fired, because that was a monumental cockup and they should've called him in immediately. It was his dad's project. He's in possession of Howard's _research notes_. The whole Captain America enterprise, while not necessarily _belonging_ to Stark Industries, surely warranted his involvement.

Even if it isn't strictly true, SHIELD should have assumed Tony would have some insight into the whole ordeal. What does anyone else have? Legends and popular culture? Because according to the official comics, Captain America is loyal to a fault. He is strong, selfless, and a glittering beacon of purity and resolve. His men love him, his superiors respect him, and he's the all-around perfect soldier. To actively _dis_like him is to be, in a nutshell, unpatriotic.

But at least Tony knows the comics are full of shit, which is one of the few things Howard ever mentioned in passing. He bought them for Tony regardless, but he never read an issue after the very first.

Rogers spent most of his Captain America days hawking war bonds at twelve-year-olds who, in turn, would go all starry-eyed at their parents and boost sales. And because Tony has scans of the original paperwork, right down to Erskine's signature, Tony knows that Rogers lied through his teeth at least five times to even get _into_ the army. He knows that Rogers was crap at following orders if it was something he personally disagreed with or took offense to.

Steve Rogers became a hero recovering the fragments of the one-oh-seventh. In doing so, in saving those men, he was deliberately disobeying his commanding officer.

It's this last part that gives Tony a glimmer of hope, because everything else he's heard so far, and read, and seen—and he has, he's pored over the video footage and swallowed his discomfort and nostalgia enough to pick through Howard's old photos and letters—has not been encouraging. He feels like they have no common ground other than the shaky connection of Tony's father, which isn't a safe journey for anybody, from any direction. There's too much at stake, there; too many things Tony's willed away, and he doesn't have it in him to accept Howard as a good man and a bad father both.

He's going to make this work, if only because SHIELD didn't want him in the Avengers initiative to begin with. They just ran out of options, but Tony has plenty of spite. He'll do the job, he'll do it _well_, and then he'll courteously be the bigger man and tell Nick Fury to go fuck himself with a hand grenade.

So that first time in Stuttgart, the first time he meets Captain America in the star-spangled flesh, Tony has resolved to do this right, to maybe hold his personality in check a bit: give Rogers a chance to get used to him by degrees. It's frustrating, he knows this, because while Tony can be charming and flashy with cameras, can be charitable at arm's-length, he's—difficult, up close. There are people who won't be in a room alone with him, because they're overwhelmed, or because he pisses them off.

A lot of people actually like Tony Stark before they end up meeting him.

_Dialing it back_ isn't an effort Tony makes lightly. It's also not something he's very practiced at.

But Rogers wouldn't have gotten to know him through the media, or his business ventures. He wouldn't have been around for the Jericho fiasco, for the—the accident, or Iron Man's inception. So he has a chance, here; he can make a good impression. He can foster a working relationship with someone he has historical ties to, with someone who got along with his dad. A man who might possibly get along with Tony, because he hasn't learned yet that nobody else does.

But after Rogers says, "Mr. Stark," in colorless acknowledgement, Tony realizes Iron Man must have his own file; that Rogers will have surely read it; and that there is nothing about Tony he could possibly respect or agree with.

All of Tony's expectations bleed out, because in the end it won't matter that he knows what pitfalls to avoid (Bucky, Peggy, time travel); to take his time with anything (everything) Rogers needs to be brought up-to-date on; that Tony had every intention of going about this the right way.

Because Steve Rogers will never want to be Tony's friend. They're too different, ideologically, and what was Fury thinking, bringing him into this?

So Tony says, "Cap'n," and it just slips out, deliberately casual, deliberately opposite the polite (if distant) greeting Rogers offered first.

Rogers says nothing, just breathes heavily beside Tony and stares down at the dark-haired god on the marble steps.

But the tone has been set; the die has been cast.

* * *

Tony's problem is that, once he starts down a path, he can't make himself _stop_.

* * *

"Can we adopt Bruce?" He asks via JARVIS on the flight back to the helicarrier, faceplate down and external speakers off because he likes having private conversations with his very own girlfriend. Also because his head's still ringing from Thor's ridiculous hammer colliding with Captain America's ridiculous shield.

"I don't know, Tony," she replies, tilting her head with affected consideration. "What's he like?"

"Haven't met him yet," he grins. "But he's quite photogenic in the pamphlets."

Pepper laughs quietly. Mirth is lovely on her, and her makeup's doing an excellent job concealing the faint, blue crescents edging her eyes. He's managed (barely) to catch her between meetings, and while she seems happy enough to hear from him, everything about her is tinged with exhaustion. Her phone gets excellent reception in DC—Tony made it, of course it does—so he's able to recognize how tired she is, even if she tries to keep it from him. The video quality is excellent, so Tony sees all.

Outside the perfect barrier of Tony's suit, Rogers is standing restlessly near the cockpit, the same place—and almost the same position, really the guy has no imagination—he'd been in on the ride out. He isn't even making small talk with Natasha, who is a goddamn _dime_, and he's mostly ignoring Tony, despite Tony's very sincere attempts at friendly conversation (Are you cold, Cap? I'd kill for latte, how about you? Or didn't they have those when you're from?).

Thor's up, too, shifting his weight in what appears to be the small-spaces equivalent of pacing, and those two should really do a photoshoot together, or a porno—Perfect Aryan Supermen. Hammer and Shield. Putting It Down.

Tony clears his throat.

"Well, as long as he's house-trained." Pepper's looking at something on the table in front of her. It's probably paperwork. Probably stuff he'll have to sign when she gets back.

"Well, we might need to make some, ah, structural adjustments," Tony murmurs, watching Loki on Iron Man's main screen while Pepper scribbles something down from the smaller window. Thor's got him on lockdown, never out of arm's reach, and keeps glancing down with a kind of contemplative fixation. There's anger in his eyes, complicated and troubled, but there are other things, too.

Loki is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge his presence. He's going out of his way to be conspicuous about it. Which, actually, Tony's pretty familiar with that.

Tony used to have trouble with other people. He's always been so wrapped up in his own head—there's a _lot_ of interesting stuff going on in there—that he missed things, sometimes. Like how Rhodey might have a high Tony-tolerance, but eventually he flips his shit. And even though all the signs are there, Tony never sees it coming.

He tries to get a better hold on this, tries to figure people out on his own; but sometimes Tony feels like he's holding up the world, even if it's just the world of his imagination. It's hard for him to disconnect, to see what's going on around his feet; it takes _effort_ to notice other people. It's not because he's an asshole. It's just something he doesn't think about.

At least he has too much emotional garbage to be a legit sociopath. He takes small comfort in this.

Years ago, when she first started working for Stark Industries, Pepper was just another secretary they'd thrown at him. It was something that happened every few months because he was fucking up a lot: with the (constant) drinking and the (neglected) paperwork and how often he (never) went to meetings. He was still brilliant, he's always been brilliant, but even to this day he can't be bothered with details that exist outside his realm of focus.

But the Pepper-who-was-his-secretary became the Pepper of today, who was his PA for years, who is now his acting CEO since he's busy being Iron Man, and who is also his girlfriend (which is still sort of like being his PA all over again, just with more sex and less free time).

Single-handedly, she managed to take his measure that first day: she identified his various and sundry issues, and quietly maneuvered him into the role of a functional employer.

She's become indispensable to the convolution of his daily life. And at some point she learned to actually _like_ him, which is more than Tony ever asked of anybody.

"That's—wait, structural—?" The-Pepper-of-today looks up at him, immediately suspicious. But not worried-suspicious, so Tony definitely feels they've grown as a couple.

The first time they met, Tony'd had a bitch of a hangover. It was an evolve-or-die moment: she was fearless, efficient, and could not be bullied or ignored. Her frank disapproval manifested itself in small, horrifying ways throughout that day, and by the time five o'clock rolled around, he was torn between firing her and giving her a promotion. He settled with making her his personal assistant.

Tony had to learn, very quickly, to preempt her brutal vengeances for every missed deadline, his obnoxious and ongoing commentary during meetings, and the general drunken disorderliness that was his life before (and a little bit after) the advent of Iron Man. Typically, punishments ranged from Pepper drowning him in paperwork; locking him in his office; hiding his booze stash; canceling his dates; and, on very rare occasions, worst-case-scenario occasions, threatening to leave his company entirely.

If you've screwed up badly enough that even Pepper Potts won't fix you, you're basically fucked forever. And, left to his own self-destructive tendencies, Tony would probably last a week at the outset.

What an embarrassing epitaph: Here Lies Tony Stark, Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist, Died When Left to Own Devices.

Tony would still like to keep Bruce, though.

"_Negligible_ structural adjustments," he answers promptly. "Just a few expansions. For comfort's sake."

"All right," she says, a smile tugging at her mouth; she knows to pick her battles. Even after all this time, in spite of his behavior and how well she knows him by now, she still _trusts_ him. It's sweet. "But Tony—we've had this conversation, remember. There are rules."

"I know, I know," he sighs. "Anyone can come stay with us as long as there's space, but I can't refer to them as pets or bots. Since they are _people_ and deserving of _respect_." Even though he has the _utmost_ respect for his bots. Since he created them, and they are his progeny. So what if they're a little janky at times.

"And?" Pepper prompts. Tony can hear someone speaking behind her and feels a sudden flash of guilt—she takes care of _everything_, she's in meetings Tony himself should be attending, she does most of the high-profile presentations and runs his goddamn company. She keeps his ego in check and compensates for his ridiculous personality quirks without question, even if she doesn't understand them. She acts as a filter between Tony and the rest of the world so the two might hope to one day understand each other.

She does her level best for him, which is more than anyone else ever has.

"And... I can't force anyone to stay against their will," Tony says, "but I _am_ allowed to bully them into friendship."

"At my express disapproval," Pepper replies, "yes."

"It is the only way," Tony says solemnly. "I must wear down the enemy forces."

"Speaking of enemy forces," Pepper says slowly, "those texts—"

"Oh," Tony says wonderingly, "I thought maybe you didn't get them. Since you didn't respond to a single one."

"We are not teenagers," Pepper says patiently, "and I'm working. And if you were texting-while-flying again, Tony, so help me god—"

"Hands-free," Tony admits. "Voice-to-JARVIS."

Pepper rubs the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, lashes dusting her cheeks. She takes a few deep breaths. "Fine. That's—fine." She pauses. "But I think you need to cut Steve some slack. He probably isn't used to your mentally unbalanced system of backhanded compliments."

"What system! I don't have a system. And I'm just trying to be friends." He pauses. "Also don't call him _Steve_, _I_ don't even call him Steve. It's weird." Tony complains. "And I haven't complimented him once!"

"Right," Pepper says dryly. Tony adamantly refuses to recall telling Steve, You look great for a nonagenarian, because he has no idea what she's talking about. Really.

"When are you eating lunch?" He asks, absurdly thinking about, well, maybe ditching this parade and flying to meet her. He could be there in—probably fifteen minutes. If he left now. He could order some slacks and a button-down en route, JARVIS knows his measurements, and they'd be off the rack but at least he wouldn't be in wrinkled clothes at a nice restaurant.

Or maybe they could just go to a burger joint down the street, or a diner, something simple—it wouldn't matter if he had wrinkled clothes, she might like that—

"Oh, I'll probably grab something from the lobby," Pepper says, shuffling something that sounds like paperwork and glancing off-screen while she blatantly lies to his face. Tony knows it's a lie, because when Pepper's in super work mode, she forgets things like eating (hypocrite!), and also to go to the bathroom. It's really not good for her kidneys, which means Tony is a terrible influence on her health. It's not something he's proud of.

"Make sure you do," is all he manages to say, at a loss, and there's some faint static—Tony'll have a look at that when she gets back, that kind of service is unacceptable—before she excuses herself.

"Hey," he says at the last minute, just before she hangs up, and she meets his eyes. The clear blue of her own glow like chips of glass. "You really—you do a lot for me, Pepper, and I appreciate it. I want you to know that." He wants to tell her he loves her, but the words are caught in his throat. He'd said it once before, when he was very intoxicated and she was very unhappy, and he'd bookended it with some other carefully constructed but ultimately piss-drunk phrases designed to make her less upset with the circumstances. He figures it didn't stick, so he gets a pass on it. Like it never happened at all.

He also wants to say how he doesn't know what he'd do without her. This is even harder, but least it's something she already knows.

"Thank you, Tony," she says, amused and slightly frazzled. "I'll see you when I get home. Be careful."

She hangs up, which is just as well. His throat is still too tight for anything more.

* * *

They get back to the helicarrier and Tony tries to ignore Captain Has-A-Point-About-Acquiring-Allies on his way to cargo. Rogers has his mouth in a tight line, but he doesn't say anything when Tony turns away from him; just sets his shield against a wall and walks out.

Tony pulls off his armor, exhausted, and drops the banged-up pieces unceremoniously onto the floor. It's scratched all to hell and he won't be able to touch up the paint until he gets home. JARVIS runs diagnostics almost constantly, so connectivity and function aren't problems at this point, but he should probably double-check the plating just to be sure. Wouldn't do to have a huge chunk of his armor break off during a fight.

Fury's tucking Loki in, probably with threats of grievous bodily harm, and if he manages to get any information out of the bastard at all, Tony can watch the surveillance records when he isn't near-comatose.

When he gets to his bunk, all he wants is a shower and a solid ten hours of sleep. What he finds is a black file folder with a blue sticky-note on it: _ brief 0800 command deck._ Inside, it contains information about the tesseract—incomplete HYDRA research notes from the war, collected (and likely heavily truncated) SHIELD data, a whole packet of information from the thermonuclear astrophysicist Erik Selvig—and a primer on gamma radiation.

There're also a couple of papers from Doctor Banner thrown in, even though they aren't directly related. Tony reads these first. Then he reads the primer. After, he reads both papers a second time.

He peels off his clothes when he's finished and burrows into the repulsively small bed in his assigned bunk.

Four and a half hours later, he crawls back out.

He manages a shower, and just as he's trying to figure out the last time he ate—it's precisely the moment between digging socks and boxers out of his suitcase that the question comes to mind—he finds a few packages of blueberries. Probably Happy slipped them in, or Pepper, because they are kind and patient parents. He snags one and settles in with the SHIELD and HYDRA data. He saves Selvig's for last, and takes his time; this, at least, doesn't appear to have redacted information or blatant, gaping holes.

An hour later, he cleans up (nicely) and meets the day with the exciting buzz of new information in his skull and a fresh suit on his back. It more than makes up for his abysmal sleep schedule.

* * *

"It's not that kind of thing, Mister Stark," Agent Phil Coulson says, like Tony's never heard _that_ before. In his experience, it's always that kind of thing.

"C'mon, take a weekend. I'll fly you out to Portland—"

But Phil just smiles in a polite way that is sincere and also like hitting a brick wall, and motions for Tony to join the meeting.

* * *

When Tony joins Rogers and the others, they're talking about Loki instead of the tesseract. He blows through that pretty quickly, focuses on the _real_ problem—a theoretical energy source to get the tesseract to boot up—and then he gets to meet Doctor Bruce Banner. It's everything he hoped it would be.

He also plants his little JARVIS-babies virus.

Natasha seems distracted, Thor is listening with rudimentary interest, and the Captain looks lost. But Bruce is seriously awesome, and is probably going to become one of Tony's favorite people ever. He's small and funny and incredibly brilliant; he keeps his gestures and commentary neat and tidy, like he's constantly restraining every part of his body. He should go unnoticed, should be wholly innocuous, because that's how he carries himself. Instead, he's impossible to overlook: the giant green elephant in the room. Because of who he is.

He's got a monster inside of him, and Tony wants to make friends.

Tony finishes lecturing in record time, because he's more interested in playing scientists with Bruce than making people feel intellectually inferior.

"Is eating not your thing?" Tony asks, sidling up to him. He comes bearing fruit of the blue and berry variety. "Is the Hulk more manageable when you're hungry?"

"I wouldn't ever call him manageable, exactly," Bruce murmurs, brows knit above his glasses, the lenses reflecting endless lines of quantitative data. It's everything they've collected on global radiation levels specific to the tesseract's own unique gamma signature. And wow, those frames have seen better days. "If it's all the same to you, the sooner we find this thing, the sooner I can get off this flying death trap and go home."

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about," Tony replies absently, studying the numbers over Bruce's shoulder. "As an aside, where is home?"

Bruce purses his lips. "I know _I_ don't," and there's something seriously off about his tone. "And—Kolkata, I guess. For the time being."

"You guess?" Tony presses, but Bruce just wants to talk about work for awhile. Tony indulges him for about seven and a half minutes. Then he's trying to broach the you-should-come-live-with-me,-seriously,-I-can-grow-you-some-real-choice-shit-bro conversation when Rogers walks in on them. He shoots Tony a pretty irritating glare, like Tony's a child who deserves to be reprimanded for talking about soft drugs, and honestly it's like everything he does just rubs this guy _completely the wrong way_. Like that's Tony's _fault_.

When it comes up in conversation, he doesn't find Tony's computer virus even moderately cool. But between Rogers _breaking and entering_, Bruce's frank suspicions, and the demonspawn program progenated by JARVIS, who is Tony's soulmate, they find out about SHIELD's Phase Two more or less as a unit. The kind of unit with dysfunctional parts—they do their respective jobs well enough, they just don't exactly fit together.

Only then Fury shows up, and Thor, because Natasha's done some more of her sick manipulative spy shit and ferreted out Loki's angle.

There are two things Tony notices in the ensuing shitstorm:

That Bruce fucking _hates_ it here; and that Natasha is sending mixed signals bordering on the bizarre. Tony has no idea how you can possibly feel responsible for and guilty about someone who fills you with _abject terror_.

In the end, Bruce's observation is entirely accurate: they're all just a chemical mixture. And then shit gets real.

The phase-two-is-tesseract-weapons-production-and-wow-that's-not-okay confrontation, which is basically Tony and Bruce and Rogers versus Fury and Natasha, bleeds out into a dozen smaller arguments. Useless, hurtful, insignificant and irrelevant: the validity of feeling a certain way, infamous reputations, how SHIELD is constructed from lies and mania.

Tony can see error easily in everyone but himself, but his own words taste silver on his tongue: sharp and bright and worthy.

There's a span of a few seconds where Rogers isn't even antagonizing him, and in a kind of backwards way might be _defending_ him against Fury's jibe on the origins of Stark Industries. But by that time Tony's already seeing red, and he's on a roll. So he lets off some steam by aiming at every wound his words can reach.

The thing about Rogers, though, is that he let Tony get away a _lot_ at the beginning of their association: a million small snarks and jabs and petty insults, a deliberate air of irreverence and disrespect. So Tony's a bit surprised to find himself on the cusp of a _physical confrontation_. With Captain America.

So maybe some people just have a long fuse. So what.

* * *

A small part of Tony curls in on itself at Bruce's declaration. Even though he's got his hands full with the two hundred pounds of all-American muscle doing its best to crowd his space while smelling really nice, (because that's apparently a forties intimidation tactic), and even though he's trying to figure out how to signal JARVIS, telepathically, to start wiping all Phase Two files, and the tesseract data in general for good measure, he takes a moment to make a promise.

It's a simple one, and he tucks it away in the back of his mind.

He will never, ever let Bruce feel this way again: that it would be better to be dead than to be himself.

* * *

Explosions go off and the helicarrier gets hit hard. It's about when Rogers says, "Put on the suit," for the last time, the time Tony agrees with; it's about when Tony's stumbling through the doorway with those warm, steadying hands at his waist and hip and rib.

But in all honesty, the realization has come in fits and starts, and maybe "You can't go by yourself," had a hand in it, too. And how Rogers stays close, doesn't peel away until he has to, until they part ways. Like he's afraid Tony will break.

So by the time they rendezvous on deck three, Tony's figured it out: the reason Steve Rogers spends a lot of time ignoring him is because Tony hasn't been saying very nice things. To Rogers. Possibly at all.

But it neatly dovetails with a second realization, and Tony learns something very important about Captain America: it doesn't matter if you irritate the piss out of him. Unless you're a seriously evil dude, he'll do his best to keep you safe.

Whether this is a nice thing, because nobody's ever done it before, or it's a shitty thing because it takes a man who doesn't even _like_ Tony to bother with his safekeeping, is utterly unclear.

So half of Tony is starting to think, Shit. He's exactly like they say he is.

It doesn't make him feel any better.

The other half of him is dealing with a whole host of things he most certainly did _not_ learn from the SHIELD files, the movies, the official reports, or the random bits of documented trivia. Some of them are:

The fact that, under his mask, Captain America has about three go-to expressions; they are Polite Disinterest, Express Concern, and Irritated Concern.

That, regardless of any friction between the two of them, he appears to trust whatever analysis Tony presents, and will actually _defer_ to Tony in areas he's unfamiliar with. It's an efficient thing to do, and a mark of a good leader, to recognize the strengths of your team. Because a successful group dynamic comes from a combination of extraordinary qualities fitting together just so.

...That Steve Rogers has broad, powerful shoulders and a kind of decisive grace to his every motion, neither of which are done justice by his original costume, as evidenced by all recorded footage to date.

That his impossible metabolism causes him to sweat more freely and often than regular humans, and. Well, Tony can smell him, even when he's not super close. And the thing is, the man smells _really good_, and it's all the time, and it's not—cologne, or aftershave or, or soap. It's just. Clean-smelling and Steve Rogers-smelling, and it's. It does things. To Tony. Things he maybe mistook for irritation, for anger, in the beginning. Revisited, he's starting to wonder if they might be other things entirely.

All on his own, Tony's learning that he's in a little bit of trouble here.

* * *

He texts his complaints to Pepper, mostly for form's sake, up until the _Steve and Tony Battle Brainwashed Guys and Clear Debris From the Engines and Basically Save the Day_ thing happens. So he mostly manages one message, via JARVIS, while he's suiting up.

It reads: _Gotta fix helicarrier, they're making me take Steve why is this my life._

Then Iron Man gets beat all to hell, which sucks and Tony was in a pretty tight spot there for a minute. But Steve looks guilty and exhausted and so fucking _relieved_ to see Tony's okay, and. It's nice. Steve's just—nice. So Tony absolutely does not feel guilty, he is not a child, but. He doesn't text mean little narratives to Pepper anymore.

And then Coulson dies, and Tony _can't._ He doesn't know what to say, or how to say it; he can't begin to internalize it, and there's this ball of fury and something like little slivers of glass all snarled up in his chest because everyone is an idiot, you can't trust anyone to get a job done and you have to do it your_self_, because people are unqualified and they—they _die_. When Tony isn't good enough, when his hands are tied, when he takes too long and people don't _wait for him_, and.

...And Steve follows him out of the room, and talks to him. He isn't offended at all when Tony says some uncharitable things about a recently deceased friend. He doesn't push Tony, he just sort of gently prompts, and then he just. He closes the distance between them. He calls Tony by his given name for the first time.

He _listens_.

Which is just as well, because that's when Tony fills in the batshit-fucking-insane crossword puzzle—he thinks best when thinking aloud—that is Loki's master plan.

In between running Iron Man so ragged it nearly goes offline, and destroying New York, and getting thrown out top-story windows of buildings he _owns_, he doesn't really have the time to contact Pepper again. He hardly has time to think about it.

He tries to call her—well, JARVIS tries to, more accurately—as they're guiding the bomb through the portal. He's the only one who can do it, and he really thinks he's going to die; that this is the big one. Pepper always answers, she _does_, he can _count _on her.

Until she doesn't, and he can't.

The last human voice he hears: You know that's a one-way ticket, Stark.

Before he blacks out, wholly prepared to die alone when even JARVIS has faded into the static, he thinks: Fuck you, Steve Rogers. Me; wire. Laying the fuck down. Crawl the fuck over because we're _saving this goddamn city_.

Tony doesn't want to be a hero. But he'll settle for having been, at the very end of his life, a decent sort of person.

* * *

He wakes up on his back.

He's stiff and uncomfortable and heavy as the world spins: the Hulk heaving beside him, covered head to enormous toe in plaster and dirt and pieces of buildings. Natasha, her hair a tangled halo of red and a change of clothes in her arms. Clint beside her, holding his right arm at an odd angle.

Thor's hammer gleaming silver in the bright, dusty sunlight.

Captain America's hand withdrawing from where it has lain, lost and at rest, over Iron Man's arc reactor.

Tony feels wrecked. He feels like something tried very hard to digest him, but didn't do a good enough job of it to put him out of his misery. He feels like a turtle flipped over in the middle of a desert and then stomped on by some angry god.

Then his stomach growls and he mostly just feels—really, really hungry.

Well. That, at least, is something he can address.

* * *

Tony gets through dinner in his wildly battered armor, and he buys because it was his idea, and he has the most money; but he'll end up expensing it to SHIELD (well, Pepper will), so it doesn't really matter all that much.

Steve eats an appalling amount of food. Thor and Bruce do, too, and Thor even orders half again as much to go—presumably to bring to his brother, and Tony isn't going anywhere _near_ that—but it's something you'd expect from a giant sky god and a guy who turns into a huge mass of muscle and wrath and violent insanity.

Steve is just a—non sequitur. He's big, yeah, but he doesn't move like he owns the whole world, or even like he wants to. He moves like he's trying to get just the smallest bit of space for himself, unobtrusive until there's an underdog to support, until he needs to seriously beat someone down for being an asshole. Then he just takes over.

Watching him eat like it's his last meal for a hundred years, like he's really _trying_ to slow down and use his Polite Company manners—it's paradoxical, almost. And it sorta makes Tony want to buy him a restaurant that will cook him food all day long. To say, Here, Steve, take your time. And, There's plenty more where that came from. Maybe add that he doesn't have to hurry because the world is saved, but if he wants to be ravenous, well, he can go right ahead and do that, too.

Tony could always stop by when he needs a break from some frustrating thing that runs on electricity, and watch the show for a few hours. Just to remind himself that some people do, in fact, remember to eat. And don't need to be worried after once you've taken care of them.

And Tony might have a concussion, because he has no idea what the hell is even going on in his brain.

They leave the restaurant to rendezvous with their SHIELD escort, which has been waiting patiently about half a mile away. Iron Man hasn't been online for the last three hours, so Tony shuffles along behind everyone else until Steve glances back one too many times and actually catches him stumbling.

After that he slows until he can fall into step beside Tony. He isn't subtle about it, and he doesn't say anything at first or make eye contact. But he hooks his arm around Tony's waist like it isn't even a thing, like he's oblivious to Tony's alternate animosity and attraction, which, okay, forties.

He bears some of the weight, and Tony can shuffle a little faster for it.

"Fury wants us on the—helicarrier for the next couple days," Steve says eventually, and he's a pretty solid guy if there's hardly a pause over the unfamiliar terminology. It's heartening that he seems okay with his situation, but the implications chill Tony down to the husk of his corporate billionaire heart of hearts. To fall asleep, expecting to die, and wake up maybe wishing you had, because you've woken up having lost _everything_: too fucking much. Tony wouldn't even be walking, in Steve's shoes. He'd be dead from alcohol poisoning. Cashed the fuck out, because incomprehensible future coupled with _complete social disconnect_? No fucking thanks.

"Oh?" Tony tries. Ahead of them, Bruce is walking beside Thor with his hands in his pockets. Exhaustion hollows out every line of his body, and his shoulders are hunched close—though this is probably because the big god has a hand on his back, weighing him down. Bruce listens good-naturedly while Thor talks about his brother with broad, impatient gestures and a terribly earnest face.

Loki's been escorted back to the ship and is, presumably, once again on lockdown. It makes Tony a bit queasy, to think about the kind of power that monster has over his brother—how every cell in Thor's body shifts to needle-sharp _focus_ whenever they're in the same room, how even when he's silent there is something howling like a wounded animal deep in his chest. How his anger at Loki can only be eclipsed by his love for him. And it's quite a lot of anger, so what does that tell you?

Tony never had a brother. He's never loved _anyone _like that. When Stane started stealing his things and trying to kill him, which is his closest point of reference, Tony cut that bastard _loose_, and he fought with everything he had, and he regrets nothing.

No, Tony knows where he stands with love. In his world, the people who love him want something from him. He thinks maybe he'd understand better if he knew what Thor wanted from Loki.

Further along are Natasha and Clint, who aren't walking particularly close together, or really saying all that much, but. There are all these little things, like how their steps are in perfect rhythm. How they glance at each other infrequently, but never miss that beat of eye contact, those small shifts in attention. Involved in some kind of wordless communication that exists in worlds Tony has never visited. Never even seen.

Steve clears his throat, and Tony tears his eyes away from his, his team. They're a team. He's responsible for every one of these assholes now. He sighs, weary, and meets Steve's eyes.

They're far closer than is currently comfortable for Tony. Also he's volunteering information, which is strange because Tony's pegged him for one of those—not Strong, Silent types, but. Not going out his way to talk to you unless he has instructions for you, or values your opinion. Which, Tony. So.

"Loose ends, I guess," Steve continues, tilting his head to indicate Thor. "Before they go home."

"Great," Tony sighs, "babysitting." _He_ wants to go home. He wants to go home and sleep for a year. Everything hurts.

Steve glances down at him finally, and there's the smallest pull of a smile on his mouth. His eyes are blue, and close, and his breath smells like falafel—garlic and middle eastern spices and ground, fried chickpeas. He'd probably taste like cucumber sauce. It'd probably be great.

Tony wrinkles his nose, but sort of sets his head against Steve's shoulder, just to see if he can get away with it. He can always cite exhaustion. Some might call this devious, but Tony does with what he has all he can.

Steve looks like he wants to reply, but something else must catch his attention because he remains silent. But he does get a bit of a tighter grip on Tony, and it could be friendly, could simply be practical. It could be nothing, Rogers probably wouldn't even know how to cue that kind of thing; he might not even be touching Tony at all if he knew what was going on in his head.

"Tony," Steve says, and Tony jerks slightly because he's basically been sleep-walking, and Steve's mouth is close to his ear, and is this first-names business a thing now? Because no one else has died that Tony's aware of.

It's weird and intimate. He deals.

"Mm, sorry, sorry," Tony mutters, shifting back from all that companionable, patriotic heat. A sleek jet is parked, for want of a better term, a dozen yards away between a car with a hulk-shaped dent in it and a half-toppled building.

Steve's hand hangs around Tony's armored waist until the SHIELD agents usher them onto the aircraft. It falls away only when they're forced apart for preliminary medical care.

* * *

Fury asks levelly, "Am I to understand—help me, here, I'm trying to fathom how you could _possibly_ think this was a good idea—am I to understand that after you _rebuffed an alien attack_, sustained _mild to moderate injuries_, and took a _psychotic murdergod into custody_ that you went for—," he pauses, and glances down at the (alarmingly lengthy) report on his desk. "_Fast food_?"

"Not exactly," Tony hedges. "It was practically health food. It was vegetarian, even."

They're in the director's office. It's just Steve and Tony, because Bruce will probably _never_ get chewed out (for obvious reasons), and Natasha's still having her ankle set, and anyway she and Clint are, for all practical purposes, property of SHIELD. Fury probably gave up on telling them what to do years ago. Or, whatever, he'll call them in later since Hawkeye broke his wrist or something. Tony was just knocked around a bit.

Steve was practically gutted, but since it's been a few hours, his belly's knit itself into a manageable flesh wound. It makes Tony sick to think about it.

Thor's with Loki, probably feeding him, but mostly doing a decent job of Not Taking His Eyes Off Him Even For A Second.

It's very, very unfair, Tony thinks. He's _always_ the one who gets in trouble. And he has a headache, and there is intense, tight pain in muscles he didn't even know he _had_ from hauling that armor around without power to offset the weight, and he wonders if this is a sign of things to come.

"We were hungry," Steve says simply. "Team needed a break."

"And that's your call to make? Standard procedure is to get your asses back here for debriefing."

Steve doesn't wilt, doesn't look unhappy or guilty. He simply says, "We just saved New York City from an extraterrestrial threat. Wasn't gonna tell them they couldn't eat dinner." He pauses briefly. "I believe it _was_ my call, sir."

Fury looks at the two of them long and hard, and Tony thinks: This is what it's like to have a friend. A partner-in-crime. It's pretty sweet.

Tony isn't used to making them; usually he throws money at people and they drive him around or run his company or hang out with him when he's hammering out the details for military contracts. Which he doesn't do anymore, and Rhodey still visits, so he has at least one other friend who is not in his employ.

He's probably mistaking—ugh, genuine respect, he can't really call it anything else, it's _there_—for physical attraction. That's what this is, with Steve. Steve, who's nice to him and probably doesn't like him at all, which makes Tony angry and grateful and debilitatingly _determined_. Willing to work for it, even.

"Your team, your responsibility." Fury is telling Steve. Then, to both of them, "Get out of my sight."

They're halfway down the hall when Steve puts a hand on Tony's shoulder.

"Um," Tony says, but doesn't shrug him off.

"You're limping," Steve says. "You shoulda let medical examine you."

"I'm not limping," Tony insists. "I'm just sore."

Steve purses his lips and doesn't say anything.

"Also I maybe hit my head," he allows. "But I'm fine. _Natasha _was limping. You should check on her."

They come to a split, and Tony's room is left and sickbay is right.

"That's—yeah," Steve says, and Tony watches him leave.

Thinks, That Brooklyn accent, he really cleans up when he wants to. He really lets it slip when he doesn't.

Thinks, Jesus fucking _christ_. Because that _ass_, holy _shit_.

Then Tony locks himself in his small room, strips off clothing stiff with dried sweat and dirt and a teensy bit of blood, and forces his aching body into the standing shower. Leans heavily against the stainless steel wall and soaps up. He's sluggish and tired in his bones, rinses off with arms like lead weights. He doesn't think about Steve's _ass_ets, and he certainly doesn't try to fantasize about Pepper and then give up in frustration when she keeps morphing back into someone blonder, bulkier, and of the decidedly wrong gender.

After a good five minutes of not doing either of these things, Tony presses his palms into his eyes and breathes in. Ribs twinge and his shoulders feel jostled and raw, and he can't even manage to beat off thinking about his marvelously beautiful and capable girlfriend.

Tony doesn't towel off so much as drag the terrycloth over his head once or twice, so he's still pretty damp when he falls into bed. He doesn't bother with anything more than boxers, and his body basically gives up as soon as he hits the mattress. It's bliss. It's perfect, soft clarity. He doesn't have to think about this complicated Steve Rogers bullshit because he's floating, and the world is a million years beneath him, and he's free, and—

—and his goddamn phone rings.

And it vibrates.

And the status light keeps flashing.

And then it rings a second time, and Tony wants to throw it against the fucking _wall_.

"_What_." He snaps, face pressed into his pillow.

"Oh, Tony, oh thank god," Pepper sobs, and Tony sits upright. Mostly. It hurts like a bitch in his ribs and makes his head ache.

"Pepper?" Tony croaks, and situates himself so that he can maybe doze a bit while she talks at him. Because, priorities.

"I've been trying to reach you for hours," she says tightly, her voice hoarse. She's been crying. She's still crying. "I saw the—it was on the news, I saw you, I," she can't get the words out, and she's crying into his ear and Tony can't remember if she's still in Washington or if she's home or what day it even is.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I lost power when I went through the portal." He's not making excuses, but that's what these conversations always feel like. Every time they talk about Iron Man. He loves Pepper, but there are times—steadily more frequent times—where he fucking hates talking to her. He knows what she's going to say next, he knows it by rote.

"Went through the—_Tony_, I saw you, I saw the nuclear _warhead _just. It just _vanished_, and then you were falling from the sky and I—it's been _hours_, I didn't even know if you were okay!"

"Pepper—"

"Why didn't you call me? I don't have a direct line to anyone at SHIELD except for Phil, and he wasn't answering either and I thought—"

A cold weight settles in Tony's stomach. "Pepper, please, about Phil—"

"I thought you'd _died_, I thought the helicarrier went down, I didn't, I," she's crying again, the kind of crying you do when you've spent the last few days handling everything as the Unflappable Pepper Potts, perfectly put-together, and then you call your boyfriend Tony Stark and he's terrible or something.

"I didn't die," Tony says softly. "I tried to call you from JARVIS. Before." Before he fell back to earth, before everything flickered and faded out and went black. Before he closed his eyes, expecting it to be the last time.

"I saw," Pepper whispers, and there it is: guilt, harsh and wet in her voice. "I thought it might've been my last chance to—I thought I'd missed—"

The sad truth is it almost was. And she had.

"It's okay, Pepper," he says, and hisses softly as he rolls onto his stomach.

"Are you hurt?" She asks, upset all over again, and Tony just wants her off the phone, just wants to _sleep_. But she's only worried about him and he can't hold that against her. It really demonstrates how he's grown as a person, that he acknowledges this at all.

"A little banged up," he says. "Nothing serious."

She sighs like she doesn't believe him. She always does, because she never does. It's not like he's lying to her. "I had everything salvageable moved to Stark Manor or storage. We're ready to get started with the repairs as soon as you give the go-ahead." She pauses for a moment. "When are you coming home?"

"A few more days," he says. "Thor wants to visit Doctor Jane Foster before they leave. She's sort of his, uh. Girlfriend. Thing. I guess." He scrubs a hand over his eyes because he feels like utter shit, and instead of sleeping it off he's explaining Thor's love life to Pepper. "We're keeping an eye on Loki here until he gets back."

"You're—keeping an eye on Loki—? So Thor can go on a _date_?"

"He lives on a another planet, Pep. They had a bridge or a gateway or something they could use to travel here, but I guess he broke it? I don't know the full story. It's probably long and involved and stupid." He thinks for a minute. "He doesn't know when he'll see her again. And he did just help save Earth. I'd say he deserves a date or two."

Pepper doesn't say anything. Tony has no idea what that means, but he's not putting her on videophone. "So I'm—," he starts, trying to let her go, but she's started talking again.

"He could stay," she says. "If he cares about her? If he might never see her again. Why doesn't he stay here?"

What? "I don't know about all that. I don't know Thor very well, and I don't know Jane at all except by reputation. I only know Thor's a god and crown prince of Asgard." It's sounds ridiculous to say it outloud, and Tony feels a headache coming on. "He has obligations to the throne." And wow, that also sounded way better in his head. "Jane's an extradimensional scientist," and that's a bit better, that's at least technically a thing now. Aliens and deep space portals and other realms of existence are all things.

"There's always someone else willing to take up the mantle," Pepper points out. It's the worst thing she could have said.

Tony hates meta-fights more than any other kind. He hates having conversations about one thing when they're actually about another.

"There isn't always someone else," Tony says, and manhandles the conversational ball back into his court. "His father's narcoleptic or something. His only brother is adopted, of a different race entirely, and also evil and insane. Pepper, I haven't slept for like twenty hours and I'd really like to pass out. Please."

"Oh! I'm sorry, Tony, you should've said. I'll talk to you in the morning, okay?"

"I'll ask you about Washington," he says. "I would tonight, but."

"I know, I know. Get some sleep."

"Bye." He hangs up and sets his phone on his bedside table, except it clatters to the floor when he misses. He doesn't bother with picking it up.

He feels so _heavy_, but presently he doesn't feel anything at all.

* * *

Tony wakes up to someone talking loudly at him, to rough hands on his shoulders, and he comes to, hazy and lethargic. The room's spinning just a bit, just faintly tilted on its axis, and Steve Rogers' face is tight and concerned above his own.

"What—" Tony mutters, sitting up and rubbing a palm over his face. "'S there an attack, what are you," he says, but Steve doesn't let him crawl out of bed.

"What the hell, Tony," Steve mutters, looking relieved and irritated at once. He's wearing civvies, but not normal person civvies. He's got on slacks and a plaid button-down that hardly fits around his arms, and a white t-shirt that peeks through the collar. He looks homeschooled. If a homeschooled kid were built like a brick shithouse.

"What's going on? Why are you in my room?" Tony yawns. His head _aches_.

"You've been sleeping for the last eighteen hours," Steve says. "You didn't come to the door. You didn't answer your phone."

Tony blinks and leans unsteadily over the bed. His phone's down there, and it's even intact. But the—eighteen hours?—the battery's probably died.

"Shit," he mumbles. He feels awful.

"You're seeing a doctor. Now."

"I'm _fine_—"

"You probably have a concussion. This is an order." Steve's jaw is tight, and he's such an _asshole._

"I do not, and _no_. Emphatically _no_." Tony hates hospitals. People _die_ in hospitals. And the doctors aren't half as smart as he is, and always crowding you and telling you to stop drinking, or they do open heart surgery on you in caves and sometimes commit suicide-by-saving-you and Tony fucking _hates_ them. His only good memories about doctors involve Bruce, and those are brand new. They're basically the stem cells of good memories. They're good memories he's still trying to _develop_.

Steve leans down, his arms on either side of Tony's hips, and their eyes are level but he's using his size advantage to—to _menace_ Tony. Into healthcare. Who _does_ that.

"You can walk," Steve says firmly, "or I can drag you. Your choice."

"Fuck you," Tony snaps, and Steve hauls him out of bed by his underarms.

Tony remembers he's wearing boxers when he's standing, mostly naked, in front of Captain America. Who is currently staring, unabashedly, at Tony's chest.

Tony swallows and bites back a whole host of scathing retorts. He forces down the knee-jerk reaction to cover his arc reactor with his hands, like he could trap the light and be, when compared to the olympian perfection of physicality before him, a normal humiliated dude rather than a handicapped humiliated dude.

"That's," Steve says, voice soft, and his fingers twitch like he wants to touch it.

"Right," Tony says coldly. "Can I please get dressed?"

Steve's eyes snap up, lock on his face. There's color on his cheeks, and Tony's confused and a bit woozy and has no idea what's going on here.

"I'll wait outside," Steve mutters, and closes the door awkwardly behind him.

* * *

Tony does, in fact, have a concussion.

"You fell from the sky and were slammed into a building by the—by Doctor Banner." The woman tells him. She's skinny, in her fifties with flyaway gray hair and brown eyes. She is distinctly unimpressed with him. "Of course you're concussed." Her name is Martha or Margaret. It's hard for Tony to focus on her name tag, he keeps forgetting to double-check. It just doesn't seem important.

Steve's leaning against the window, watching her with interest.

"It was only a little one," Tony complains. "You would've told me to sleep it off anyway."

"But it might _not_ have been," Steve insists. "It wasn't very smart, Tony."

He's talking to him like Tony's a child, and he's doing it in front of other people. It gets his hackles up.

"I don't remember asking your opinion," Tony snaps, shoving himself off the examination table.

...And promptly listing to the side, because holy _fuck_ is he dizzy.

Doctor Meredith steps neatly out of the way, since she's a complete dick like most doctors. But Steve steadies him without hesitation, gets an arm half around his shoulders. So that's all right, even if Tony was pissed off about. Something. Whatever.

"It'll be a bit worse today," the doctor says, already turning her attention back to the paperwork in her hand. Tony has Grave Suspicions that it belongs to another patient entirely, even though she makes like she's taking notes. Tony is the heir apparent of Pretending to Take Notes, he _knows _what doodling looks like from the other side. "But you should feel better after that."

"Thank you, Mary," Steve tells her. Ah, that was it.

Wordlessly, Steve leads him from the room. Tony shoves his arm off, and Steve lets him.

"Look," he says, frustrated and careful. It's a strange combination, and sets Tony on edge. "I'm responsible for you. Gotta make sure you're all right. I'd appreciate it if you could work with me a little."

"_Worried_ about me, Rogers?"

Steve looks confused, twin lines between his eyebrows, lashes dark against his cheeks as he glances down at Tony. "Course I am."

Tony has half a hundred things to say to that, mean and cutting things. But he doesn't.

He looks away instead. Doesn't quite close his eyes, but lets them fall to half-mast and forces his brain to _process_.

Steve doesn't think Tony is an idiot. He's just mad because Tony could've been hurt worse than he was. He is not impressed by Tony's careless attitude.

He worries about Tony. He wants Tony to be all right.

"Okay," Tony says, and tries not to think about the tight feelings that have suddenly gone loose in his chest; how good it feels to resolve something, how it's over with, and Steve's not—sulky, or mad in small, subtle ways. "So, uh. Any directives from the Director? We just hanging tight for a bit? What time is it, anyway?"

Steve smiles, and it's not his Captain America smile. It's shy and sweet.

And just now, right this minute, it's. It's sort of just for Tony.

* * *

So Thor fucks over to New Mexico while Tony is sleeping off head trauma, and Loki's holed up in Thor's bunk under lock and key until such a time as Thor comes to collect him. This is not Tony's idea of a fantastically secure location for an extradimensional war criminal god, but seeing as Loki really isn't in any sort of shape to run off—not after the Hulk got through with him, anyway—Tony figures they'll all just chill out for a few days until Thor returns to take his villainous ass home.

Tony sets up shop in the lab he's been sharing with Bruce and starts to catch up with Stark Industries designs.

Three hours and two pots of coffee later, Bruce leans over his shoulder and asks, "I thought you weren't doing weapons anymore?"

"It's not a weapon," Tony protests. "It is very clearly an instrument of defense."

"Not saying I don't believe that _you_ believe that," Bruce laughs, "but Tony, I've seen the guy use the thing. It's definitely a weapon."

"It's not for mass production or anything. I just thought—well, Dad made it, so."

"You wanted to make it better." It's not a question.

"It doesn't seem," Tony tries, and comes up with nothing. "It's not very," he tries again.

"I'm not sure Steve goes for flashy," Bruce tells him, turning back to his work. "I think he's probably happy with what he's got." There's a pause while Bruce frowns over some charts. "It's a nice gesture though, Tony."

Bruce loses himself in his research, which Tony knows from _snooping_ is a pointless endeavor to reverse his—condition. Often he'll run tests he's run dozens of times already. Like he was maybe doing it wrong, consistently, for the past three hours.

It's more a side project, these days, Tony thinks. Something Bruce does when he's bored, a reflex that's almost like meditation. He hasn't even asked about taking some samples from Steve, which is the first thing Tony would've done.

So he can't be _that_ serious about it, but the idea of Bruce just—_going through the motions_ is disheartening on every existent level.

Tony wonders if Bruce feels trapped. Or if maybe he just doesn't like change at first, but once he gets used to a place, he doesn't feel too strongly about moving on until something else comes up.

He gets the terrible impression of gunmetal clacking against teeth; of eyes squeezing shut and a monster bursting forth; and feels sick.

He doesn't really know much about Bruce, but he wants to learn everything.

Some more time passes, but Tony wouldn't be able to say how much; he's up to his elbows in the Tower floorplan redesigns, and he's pretty excited about them. He's mostly working on Bruce's level right now, since it'll take some careful (and _sturdy_) architectural tricks. He'll probably have to add something similar to the containment chamber Fury had on the helicarrier—well, before Loki dropped it out of the sky.

The important thing is that it _can't_ be a cage, Bruce _hates_ that. He's not an animal.

And he'll be more likely to live with Tony if he knows he won't be able to hurt anybody. That's Tony's angle, anyway.

So, an indeterminable amount of time later, there's the deliberate sound of footsteps and a door opening, and peripherally Steve's brown, polished shoes and gray slacks and pale orange collared shirt.

"What's up?" Tony asks, hands splaying on his desk as he stretches, cracking his back.

Steve blinks, clears his throat. Crosses his arms. "They're serving lunch in the mess hall."

"There's a mess hall?" Tony asks, eyebrows raised, and—

Steve blushes. There's no mistaking what it is.

And god, what does it say about Tony that he immediately wants to _exploit that_.

"Might not be called that anymore," Steve says. "Um—cafeteria?"

Tony studies him, bewildered. "No, I think—yeah, mess is probably right. I was just. I wasn't thinking about it." But now that he is, his stomach makes an effort to rumble faintly with interest.

"Oh," Steve says. They stand there for a moment, silent, and Tony has _no idea_ why it's awkward.

Then Bruce saves the day because he is Tony's ultimate hero.

"That's a good idea," he says. "I could eat." Except then he leaves them alone, and he's actually a turncoat because it is terribly un-bro-like behavior to bail on your buddies.

"I was starting to wonder where all the coffee was coming from," Tony says, on autopilot because, hey, he's Tony Stark and basically the king of making conversation.

But it doesn't lighten the mood, and Steve looks pinched and unhappy again. "You haven't been eating?"

"Well, there were—I had blueberries. And shawarma, remember the shawarma? It was glorious?" Steve should know all kinds of things about glory.

"Blue—the ones you were eating with Bruce? Days ago? And shawarma was—you haven't eaten since _shawarma_?

"I'll have you know I eat quite a lot," Tony says testily. "It's just a bit. Sporadic."

Steve glances at Tony, and then around at the lab. After a long moment he asks, voice somewhat tight, "If I brought you food, would you eat?"

"You don't have to—"

"It's not a problem. What do you want?"

"I'm not a little kid. You don't need to go out of your way to—to feed me and shit," Tony says, irritated all over again. "Just, I'll stop by later, okay?"

"It's not out of my way," Steve tells him firmly. "I'm already making the trip."

* * *

This is how Tony learns that Captain America is hand-delivering food to their resident powerhouse nutjob. And taking meals with him.

Not that Tony would know, because Tony skips quite a lot of meals when he's in an unfamiliar place, or when he's working, or when he's at home. Basically he eats out a lot, whenever he manages to make time for it. And he has his bots to make healthy smoothies the rest of the time. Really. They sustain him with nutrients and natural fruit sugars throughout the day.

Just not when he's working somewhere else, they're kind of a pain to transport and mostly useless anyway. Tony keeps them around for very personal reasons which have nothing at all to do with sentimentality. Also he didn't expect to be on a helicarrier for a _week_.

His stomach rumbles again, much more loudly and traitorously, and Steve fires off this little smirk that makes Tony want to punch his stupid face. Or, you know, maybe shove him up against a wall. It flashes hot through his body, unbidden and patently ridiculous, and Tony likes _redheads_, what the _hell_.

_Shut up shut up shut up_, Tony thinks wretchedly to his brain, or his dick. Whichever, it's not like either are listening to him at this point.

They hit up the cafeteria, and Steve piles two trays high with food. And they _let him_. The friendly SHIELD-approved level 6 security-clearanced food service people don't even look at him funny. Even though Tony's definitely looking at him funny, so everyone could join in and it wouldn't be rude, even.

Then he glowers, because Steve expects him to carry some of it.

"Guy's got an appetite," Steve explains, as if he doesn't eat half his body weight every single day.

"Fine," is all Tony says.

Thor's room is like Tony's room, except the bed's on the opposite wall and the bathroom is a hair larger. Also Loki's curled up on the decidedly too-small-for-him bed.

"Captain," he says, shifting very slowly into a sitting position. Tony's presence gives him pause, however.

"Hi," Tony says, because what else do you say to a broken god who threw you out of a window, killed a friend of yours in cold blood, and destroyed a giant chunk of New York City?

"Stark," Loki acknowledges, and his eyes stray to Steve, and then to the trays of food.

Steve takes a seat on the floor like it's nothing, and he doesn't even have his shield with him. Stunned, Tony watches as Loki follows suit, easing himself down from his bed. He's really not in awesome shape.

"I have already, I believe, informed you that your ministrations are unnecessary," Loki says stiffly, though he is already reaching for a plate piled high with broccoli and mashed potatoes and some kind of green bean casserole. "I will heal regardless."

"But it'll take longer," Steve says. "I made a promise." It sounds like a reminder. Tony is lost.

Loki doesn't say anything, but his mouth twitches unhappily. Tony is even more lost.

It's possibly the most awkward meal Tony has ever had. Steve and Loki sit in relative silence, inhaling food—Steve efficient and methodical, Loki surprisingly delicate, but both consuming an alarming quantity—and Tony manages to unearth a giant bowl of soup, cleverly protected from spills beneath a plate of blueberry muffins. He snags one of those, too.

Tony lets his mind wander back to Avengers Tower; he can't call it anything else now that his internal dialogue has been overwritten, but once they get the sign buffed up he won't have to correct people anymore (even though he hasn't made any kind of formal announcement and won't for months). He's trying to puzzle out a way to fit a portal into Thor's bedroom—he'll get Jane in on it, between the two of them and Bruce they should be able to come up with _something_ to emulate the Bifröst, but it'll seriously cut into the power supply, probably by half, but running the Tower for six months on arc technology is still impressive, still years ahead of—

"Thor will be back tomorrow evening," Steve is saying, snapping Tony out of his reverie.

"Lovely," Loki replies. "You will no longer have to look after me as though I am a child." His voice is completely colorless, and Tony wonders which is worse—to be trapped on a world you failed to conquer, held captive by the enemy you were unable to defeat; or to return home where you will be put on trial for your crimes by the family you once loved. It makes his head hurt.

"Finish your soup," Steve says, this time to Tony, and maybe it's because he wasn't paying attention, but. Something about his voice, the quality of command, it's like everything's been flipped over in Tony's brain. He's never realized this before, but there's a split second where it's as if he's at the top of a rollercoaster, only the track can fork left or right, and he can _choose_ whether to be stubborn and pissed off about it, or—

—impossibly, dangerously aroused. It sinks into his gut, the hot memory of Steve telling him to put the suit on, except this time it isn't hot with anger, specifically; and now Tony's thinking that, maybe someday, Steve will be ordering him to take it _off_, and _wow_. Tony never would've guessed he had an—_authority kink_. What even.

He just, he needs to. Get his head on straight. Maybe call Pepper, and this is when he remembers that he should've called this morning. Which was actually probably twelve hours ago, and much of that time he'd been asleep.

Also he forgot to plug his phone back in, and she's going to be _livid_.

"You haven't made a lot of friends, Loki," Steve is saying bluntly, continuing a conversation Tony hasn't been following. "You know Thor asked me to—"

"I'm not hungry," Tony interrupts, standing. "I'll catch up with you later. Well, not you, obviously," he says to Loki, but the liar god simply continues to stare somberly at his plate.

"Farewell, Stark," he offers.

"Tony," Steve says, and he's standing, too.

"Thanks for lunch," Tony says, because he doesn't know what else to say. And he leaves the two of them alone in Thor's room.

* * *

Two hours after that, Tony still hasn't called Pepper or charged his phone, but he's made a ton of headway on the Tower.

He _loves_ his technology, loves generating the designs like they've come out of the plain air, out of whole cloth. There is no tired medium he has to translate, nothing separating him from the pure act of creation, and he works so quickly, moves through so many ideas, that the mere thought of having to rough out plans the old fashioned way makes him feel tight and claustrophobic.

Brings him back to a cave in the desert with his heart hooked up to a car battery.

Fingertips calloused and bleeding from laboriously-etched technical drawings on smudged tracing paper.

Torture.

Yensin.

He steps back from his workstation, lets his hands fall to his sides, and takes a deep, steadying breath. Presently, his heart rate returns to normal; his eyes burn from being open so intently for so long, and he presses his palm over the arc reactor. Tells himself it's there, forces all the threads of his thoughts back to zero, to center. Like he's hauling everything in.

Bruce glances over at him. "You doing okay over there?"

"Peachy," Tony says.

"Well, I'm done working for the day. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah," Tony says. And then, remembering, "Wait—come over here, let me show you something."

Tony pulls up the schematics for Bruce's floor, , and pitches it. Just sells the fuck out of it, and Bruce is listening quietly and looks the smallest bit overwhelmed.

"And here's your research lab," he says, driving it home. "Full access to all Stark Industries resources."

"Tony," Bruce starts, and he looks hesitant and wary.

"And your own spectrometer," Tony throws out hurriedly. "I've already ordered it."

"Tony, you can't just—," he interrupts himself, eyes glazing slightly. "My own spectrometer?"

"Yes," Tony says firmly. "Also a new laptop. I don't like your old one."

"There's nothing wrong with my _current_ laptop."

"It's a subpar product," Tony huffs.

"It isn't a Stark Industries product, you mean."

Tony smiles with teeth.

So that's squared away, signed and sealed: Bruce is coming home with him tomorrow. And when the renovations are complete, he'll move into Avengers Tower with the rest of them.

* * *

After Bruce leaves, Tony finally manages to hunt down Natasha. She's been spending most of her time in an empty cargo wing, using the open space for _physical exertion_, of all things.

"Your excuse not to go to the gym," Tony says, appalled, "is that they don't have a gym _on the ship_. And yet you just come down here and make one. It baffles."

She's stretching, dressed in white yoga pants and a loose pink sweater, and it should clash with her hair, all of it should be too pastel for her dark sense of humor, for the deadly intent that follows her fingertips even when she's off-field. It doesn't, though. There's sweat drying along her hairline and throat, and she's so limber it makes Tony's throat dry, because—right, redheads.

He does admit it's jarring to see the Black Widow dressed in weekend-sleepover girlfriend clothes, though.

"I guess that means _you _don't have an excuse," she teases. "You should join me. Work off some of that unemployment fat."

"Just because I'm not up to the physical standards of a disturbingly acrobatic _assassin_," he tells her, "doesn't mean I'm out of shape."

"Whatever you've got to tell yourself," she says easily, folded over in a kind of arching backbend, "to get out of bed in the morning."

"You are needlessly cruel," he sniffs, "and I'll have you know I'm gainfully employed."

"Right," she says, straightening and adjusting her scoop-necked collar. "Anything else?"

Tony rolls his eyes while she stretches both arms behind her back. "How's your ankle?" He asks.

"Fine," she says, lifting her leg and rotating her foot. There's an audible crack, and Tony winces. "Stiff, but functional."

"That's what she said," because Tony can't fucking help himself and is clearly a fifteen year old.

Natasha snorts. "What do you want, Stark?"

"I need to talk to you about moving in with me," he says, and her head snaps up. "Not like that," he amends quickly. "I mean, yes, but—let me start over."

"Please do," another voice chimes in, and Tony glances up to see Clint in the rafters, back curved lazily against a support beam. He's got his bow in his lap, hands relaxed over it like he was—sleeping up there or something. With his bow. Huh.

"Oh, good, I see you are hanging out in the ceiling like this is perfectly acceptable behavior. Saves me the trouble of tracking you down later, I guess." Tony pauses significantly. "Clint, you do realize it's fucking weird to stalk your own girlfriend." Tony would love for either of them to deny it, to shoot it down, to sputter over everything wrong with this sentence, because honest-to-god he has _no idea_ what's up with these two.

They completely ignore him, and Natasha's face doesn't even change, and Clint just smirks.

"You were saying?" She prompts, and goddamn, she's almost smiling, too.

"Even though you two are very creepy, I want you to come live in my Tower. That I'm still building, sort of. Because we broke it."

"Clint and I," Natasha clarifies, "and you, and Pepper?"

"And Bruce," Tony says. "And Steve."

There's a beat of silence. Tony fills it. "I've got the layouts for your levels. Take a look when you have time." He passes over two flashdrives, and Natasha takes them both. Then she glances up at Clint, who tilts his head and shrugs.

"We'll take a look," she says to Tony. "But why are you—?"

"We're superheroes now," he says flippantly. "We need a swingin' superhero pad."

* * *

What Tony doesn't say: You're so much better than SHIELD, Natasha. There's more to life than living out of a hotel in a foreign city, or a cramped bunk on a helicarrier a mile over the ocean.

And: Clint. It isn't all stand-up showers and red-eye flights and long distance assassination. You know that better than _anyone_. If we're all in this together, we have to be _in _this _together_.

* * *

The last person Tony needs to talk to about his brilliant Avengers Tower plan is Steve, and he's avoiding him a tiny bit because everything is so hot and cold all the time—one minute it's great, they're getting along, it's awesome. Tony has a friend. Steve has very dry humor, and he's patient and capable. If he knows something, he sticks to his guns; if he doesn't, he's all ears. He's—really just a good person. Tony's heart sinks, because he knows so few of them.

Pepper's one. He really, really needs to call her. He isn't looking forward to it any more than he was three hours ago.

The other problem with Steve is they argue, usually because of some stupid forties thing he's hung up on, though much less now that he's sort of got a handle on Tony's personality. But the other times, with the. The casual proximity, the way he kind of fusses over Tony, even if he does that with everyone, because he's their leader and apparently that _means_ something.

The way he goes quiet when Tony's said something he really likes, a direct inverse to the simmering anger that eventually boils over when Tony pisses him off.

The way he takes up the whole room without even having to talk over people all the time like Tony does: bright, present, patient. Like if you fuck up, it'll probably be okay because Steve's there, he's a solid place to stand. You can move worlds if he's got your back.

...The way Tony's desperately attracted to him, because now that the idea's had time to take root, it's almost all he can think about.

It's a goddamn mess, is what this is.

Eventually it goes the other way: Steve tracks him down first. Tony wasn't exactly hiding, just holed up in his room and maybe making himself unavailable. But he's wrapped up in a project, so when there's a knock on the door he isn't really thinking about it.

"Come in," Tony says, offhand and inattentive, and he's got his laptop open and schematics up for Captain America's shield, is standing around his desk and sorting through all the old prototypes and pulling together his favorite bits, tweaking the conglomeration like it's fucking _magic_ because he's Tony-fucking-_Stark_, and when he opens up files on his computer they take up his whole _bedroom_.

"Holy cow," Steve says when he walks in, then looks immediately chagrined. "Still getting used to this," he adds, waving a hand.

Tony smiles crookedly, because the alternative is saying something insensitive like, "I know what you mean," or worse: "I'm sorry everyone you loved is dead or in a nursing home."

If he allows himself to break the fourth wall, to actually see Steve out of context—if he allows himself to remember for even an instant the gravity of this man's circumstance—everything comes crashing down in his stomach, falls through him like a stone through water, and the thought alone makes him feel like he's drowning. He has to keep it at arm's-length, because this? This is a fucking travesty. This is something that should never have happened to anyone, and Tony was such a fucking asshole with those—those _Capsicle_ jokes, _Old man_, and. It isn't like with Bruce, not really—you can't pick at this particular weakness until it becomes a strength.

Tony should've learned by now that his particular brand of conversational, preemptive self-defense is usually just a paper mask for base cruelty. He's sad a lot of terrible things to Steve.

(There's a whisper in Tony's mind, in the voice of a young god, about imagined slights. He carefully ignores it.)

And yet, here Steve is. Talking to him, being civil, being _kind_. Tony doesn't deserve all these good, impossible people in his life.

"Is that my," Steve asks, oblivious to the turmoil raging beneath Tony's skin as he glances around the room.

"Yes," Tony says, moving onto firmer ground, letting his excitement carry him. "I was thinking—well, how do you feel about firepower? I could affix an energy source," and here he pulls up the center of the shield, "say, at the heart of the star. And you wouldn't need to charge it. Like, ever. I know my father—"

Maybe after a long day of selling himself, Tony's lost his edge. Or maybe Steve's just not that kind of guy; regardless, he holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Wait," he says. "Before you go any further."

"If we made it heavier overall, we wouldn't have to compromise durability—I know defense is your offense—but I really think," Tony just powers through, but Steve is still shaking his head.

"I'm not you," he says. And ain't that the fucking truth, christ.

Tony doesn't mean to, he doesn't mean to _shut down_. It's a personal problem, he's trying to work around it, but. It's a different animal, earning someone's friendship by doing something _for_ them. Tony's not adept at forging relationships; he has a hard time figuring out what people want when it isn't money or sex, which are his usual modes of attack—to just throw out one or the other until the situation improves.

Money is something he can't really run out of. But time? Effort? Trying to make something with his own two hands and coming up short? Tony needs to stop thinking. It's the cycle he had to break when he was a kid, when Howard never—when Tony wasn't ever _good enough_.

But Steve must see it all on Tony's face, because he immediately takes a step forward. He looks apologetic and, for some patently absurd reason, guilty. "Not like that," he says hastily. "Having options works well for someone like you. You think a mile a minute. But simple is better for me. Anything too complicated would just slow me down."

Tony licks his lips before biting them, turns away from Steve, moves his hands in deliberate, efficient gestures to minimize the files and tuck his perfect little universe back into his laptop. He's able to drum up a tired smile. "Right," he says. "I'm not sure what I was thinking, I just," and he shuts down his computer, carefully snaps it closed. "I like making things better." We have too many weaknesses as people to lay ourselves bare as heroes, he thinks.

"Right," Steve echoes awkwardly, suddenly close, and Tony glances over his shoulder in surprise. Steve is just behind him, tracking his movements contemplatively. Tony feels like he's on display, discomfited, scrutinized: stripped bare to his base parts. He has to force back the impulse to turn around and protect himself.

"Some things are fine the way they are," Steve finally adds. And then, hesitating, he settles his heavy palm on Tony's arm. "But thanks for thinking of me."

"Not a problem," Tony replies, unnerved at the contact, at the air going out of the room, at whatever has become the opposite of distance swirling inexorably between them. It feels like gravity, like it's only a matter of time. Like Tony won't be able to stop himself. "Um. Did you need something?"

Steve blinks, purses his lips. "I was gonna ask you earlier," he says, letting his hand fall, and Tony turns to face him with his arms crossed. Leans back against the desk, wedges a bit of space between their bodies. "You don't really take care of yourself."

"Is that your question?" Tony sighs, scrubbing his hand back through his hair.

Steve ignores him. "I don't know how it was before, but. Other people rely on you now."

Tony looks up, and Steve's shifted closer again: angled into his space, warm and broad and tall. And whatever Tony's feeling right now, it's not intimidation; it's not inferiority. It's not comparing himself to a legend and coming up short and imperfect and human.

Mostly, right now, Tony just feels an overwhelming surge of _want_.

"I've been doing just fine these past few years, thanks," he says sharply. "I'm not a liability, Rogers."

Steve raises his eyebrows, surprised. "I wasn't implying," he starts.

"The hell you weren't," Tony snaps, and if there is ever a point, in retrospect, where he actually lost control of the situation, this is probably it—where he crowds in close, hunches his shoulders like a threat. "We managed to get our shit together enough to be a team, but I'm _sick_ of this—this _mother-henning_, you're not my—you don't fucking _own_ me—"

Steve narrows his eyes, frustrated tension all along his arms and in the lines of his face, the angles of his shoulders and back. He's too young, in every way that matters, for the burdens and memories he carries. But he's close, and angry, and he's got his hands against the desk and he's caging Tony in, and Tony is. Tony is heavily conflicted, and there's heat in his belly and he wants to thrash and snarl and bite, and he wants to—

"I," Steve parrots at him, "like making things better."

"Go fuck yourself," Tony says nastily, because he meant that as a peace offering, and Rogers is throwing it back in his face like every other douchebag Tony's ever made an effort with. There haven't been many. He shoves his hands against that broad solid chest. "And get _off_ me!"

But what actually happens is:

Tony's fingers slip over the soft cotton button down, and Steve drops his arms automatically and covers Tony's hands with his own.

They're warm, and big, and Tony tilts his head up, startled, because Steve's eyes are impossibly blue. And his pupils are dilating. And he's looking at Tony like—

"Look," Tony says breathlessly, because Steve isn't talking, and he isn't letting Tony go. Like he's frozen in place, like he's stuck. Tony's last words still hang between them, and do nothing to push them apart.

So this is it, then. There's a part of Tony that's almost relieved.

"I don't do this much anymore—and, honestly, not too often with," Tony tries, but he cuts himself off. Swallows.

Steve's eyes fall to his throat, follow the motion. "What are we doing, Tony," he asks, voice a rough whisper, and his hands tighten until it's almost painful.

...And Tony makes a very bad decision. But there's no helping it; he's fought it for days, tried to skirt the edge of disaster like a sinkhole. But sinkholes just keep spreading, wider and wider until the entirety of the foundation has simply _gone_.

Very carefully, so as not to startle him, Tony removes one of his hands from Steve's iron grip. Steve looks pained, nervous, uncertain. It's not like him at all.

Exhaling, Tony raises the calloused pads of his fingers to Steve's cheek. Casts his gaze away. He is lost.

Says, very slowly and deliberately, "You have beautiful eyes, Steve Rogers."

"Oh," Steve answers, like Tony's given him something. He lets his forehead fall until it's resting gently against Tony's hairline.

"Were you worried about me, before," Tony asks, low and curious with his eyes closed, "when the helicarrier was listing and you sort of. Manhandled me out the door."

"Habit," Steve says, his face warm at every point of contact. "Protecting civilians. Ingrained reaction."

Tony waits, trailing his fingertips in soothing circles over an angled jaw, the hollow beneath a cheekbone. It feels like any other face; Tony is fascinated and caught.

"But when I thought I—that I pulled the lever too late. The red lever." Steve concedes, and if Tony wasn't sure before, he is now. He's not alone in this.

It's going to be a problem. It's easy to walk away when you know someone doesn't want you. It's harder when there's a chance, but.

…It's impossible when they—when you _know_ they do.

Tony is so _fucked_.

He frees his second hand, which Steve has still been holding, and trails it over solid obliques. Drifts it down to cup a sharp hip bone. He can feel the heat rolling off Steve's body in waves, and. The way he smells, it's. It's too much. "Glad to see I've grown on you." Tony whispers. It comes out rougher than he intends.

"Like a fungus," Steve breathes. "To be fair. You wanna upgrade my shield." It sounds like his throat is dry, and he's finally reaching out to _touch_ Tony. His hair, his shoulders, his arms. Light, careful contact like Steve wants to get his hands over _all_ of him, like he's afraid Tony will disappear, like he isn't sure where to start or what to do. Like he doesn't want to miss anything.

"To be fair," Tony repeats quietly, matching him for pitch, "you're not a god or a monster. You're not a master assassin. You don't carry a legitimate weapon and you don't have super scifi future armor." After a moment he adds, fondly, "Or an intellectual capacity that is nothing short of miraculous."

It gets a laugh out of Steve, at least. Soft and precious and fragile, but wholly present. It's there; Tony gets to have it, regardless of whatever follows.

I'm sorry, Tony says, with no idea why. Except he can't get the words out, which is just as well. They fade away, unspoken, on the back of his tongue.

Steve's cautiously curling his fingers around Tony's neck, leaning in to cover that last critical scrap of distance. Like he's decided to try something, maybe. To take something he thinks he might want.

When Steve finally gets his mouth on him, it's soft and warm; his lips are parted only just, and the contact is almost chaste. He's touching Tony like Tony might break.

And maybe Steve is a patient, searching kind of person, maybe he's reflective or maybe he just likes to ease into things. But Tony isn't, and isn't, and doesn't; this, Steve Rogers _kissing him_, is all the permission Tony needs.

He gets his fists twisted up in Steve's shirt without preamble, opens his mouth and slides his tongue over Steve's lower lip, nips at it trying to gain entry.

Steve's breath hitches, and Tony finds himself shoved up on the desk next to his laptop, back knocking against the wall, wrists held captive above his head by one huge palm. Steve's between his legs, pinning him beneath hot pressure, beneath a force that's keeping Tony together as much as it's crushing him.

"Didn't even know if I, if you were, if we," Steve gasps, dropping a hand high on Tony's thigh and _squeezing_, and he really needs to stop talking, as in right this second, because Tony needs to be _kissing him_.

Tony pushes against him, frustrated, gets a lock on Steve's mouth even as his hands are pinned in place, even as Steve fits their hips together like he can't help it. His face is flushed, pink and shy and damp with moisture, and he's so fucking gorgeous it's _murder_, jesus fucking _christ_.

"Bed," Tony manages, "bed, now. Bed bed _bed_."

It's the wrong thing to say, because Steve goes rigid. "We," he stutters out.

"_Now_, Steve," Tony barks, and maybe it's because there's still a bit of residual soldier left in him, enough that he follows orders on impulse, especially if you surprise him with one. He's letting go of Tony and stepping back, and the room is cramped and small and Tony manages to slide to the floor without knocking anything over, manages to shove at Steve until the low bed buckles his knees, until they topple onto the sheets together.

And this is—this is good, this is fucking wonderful, Tony with his thighs apart and slowly jerking his hips, stealing contact through multiple layers of clothing, and there's half a moment of fear where he's _terrified_ that this is all on him, that Steve isn't—but Steve kissed him _first_, he _did_—

But, no. No, this isn't all on Tony, Steve is impossibly hard, he's _huge_ where their dicks are pressed together, and Tony's first thought is, Shit, it's been a _long time_ and this guy is going to split me in _half_. And his second thought is, I can't fucking _wait._

"Tony," Steve says, fingers trailing under his t-shirt, skimming over his belly because apparently Rogers is a goddamn _tease_, but he doesn't look playful—he looks worried, he. He looks like he's thinking about this too much and all Tony wants to do is liberate some of this star-spangled glory. This national goddamn treasure.

Tony is _done_ thinking; he's already decided to make the mistake. He'll fucking pay for it, sooner rather than later, but he's going to _take what he wants_.

Tony pushes people. Steve is someone who's pushed back. He makes Tony feel like a fucking _human being_, instead of some crazy person that can't be pieced together, even in private. When Tony shouldn't have to play at being a less damaged version of himself.

Steve can _handle_ Tony, and that feeling—being safe, being understood, being challenged. It's perfect, it could fucking _work_, and Tony wants it so badly he's sick with it. It's all he wants.

There are a great many people in the world who would be whatever Tony needed; some could pull it off so seamlessly that the performance might go unnoticed for years, or forever. But Steve's sense of self is as immovable as stone, as displaceable as the ocean floor. Tony has no idea how to appeal to that kind of integrity, or what he could possibly offer someone who carries convictions as steady as a vibranium shield, who never strays over lines drawn with all the clarity of justice.

But right now it doesn't matter. Steve Rogers _wants_ him, Tony can read it in every straining limb, in the heat trapped beneath his thighs. In every breath and every buck of his hips.

Even if he only gets this once, there's no helping it. Tony's going to ride him into the fucking _mattress_.

So he jerks his shirt off over his head and floods the space between their chests with blue light. This is a part of him, as vital as the marrow in his veins, as the air in his lungs.

"I know it's weird at first." He leans back, straddling Steve's hips, and Steve shifts a bit so he's mostly sitting up. Wraps an iron forearm around Tony's back, pulls him close so he can reach up and skid his fingertips over the delicate, durable construction of metal and glass and perfect energy that saves Tony's life with every heartbeat.

"No," Steve says, and the bottom drops out of Tony's stomach because he continues, "it's beautiful." He's tracing it, skidding his fingers from flesh to steel to flesh, like he's reveling in the contrast of textures. Tilts his head like he wants to maybe kiss it, but glances up at Tony curiously. The light colors his face, catches in his eyes until they burn a deeper shade of blue than Tony has ever known.

"You say that now," Tony huffs, because Steve keeps caging it with his hands, transfixed. Reverent. It twists up in Tony's gut, uncomfortable and warm. "Just wait 'til you're trying to fall asleep."

Steve pauses again, his hands slowly falling until they're firm around Tony's bare waist. He doesn't say anything, but it's there between them: a question, suspended, that could make or break this moment. There's the smallest part of Tony that whispers, You could stop; it isn't too late.

But that's a damn lie. The _want_ was enough to ruin everything. Tony's already bought the ticket—he just hasn't gotten on the train yet.

It doesn't matter how you frame it. Tony knows exactly where he's going.

So Steve says, with careful intent, "I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Then we'll do just fine," Tony murmurs, relieved, before bending down to kiss him.

There's a slight disconnect: Steve takes his time, edges a thumb over Tony's wrist, gets a hand on Tony's bare back. Works his mouth slowly, careful and focused, and Tony just wants it messy and fast.

"Look," he hisses sharply as Steve bites down with excruciating gentleness over the ridge of Tony's jaw, just below his ear, "are you gonna fuck me or what, Cap?"

Steve freezes, and he's close so Tony sees his pupils dilate; sees the hot flush bleed across his cheeks, down his neck to disappear in his stupidly wholesome button-down. "I—," he stammers, at a loss, and Tony rocks forward, shifts their _very noticeable erections_ meaningfully against one another.

Steve makes this small, tight sound, and it's like he deflates, like he loses his sense of presence for a few hard seconds. Then his arms tighten around Tony and everything rushes back, his breath and his heat and the intensity of his focus, and Tony finds himself being manhandled once more—rough hands on his ass hauling him close, a soldier's close-quarters mastery of groundfighting that ends with Tony's body trapped against the sheets beneath Steve's heavy weight.

Tony's got his thighs splayed out like goddamn whore, and Steve is rutting against him for more glorious friction and life is _amazing._

"I need you to," Tony gasps out, his nails raking through Steve's hair, tugging at it until Steve moans, and he's distracted by fingers like raw flame sliding beneath his jeans, sinking into the bare curve of his ass.

"What," Steve gets out, hips still jerking, and it's all Tony can do to fumble with his fly, tangling his hands between their bodies, doing his level best to get to a place in his life where he's naked in bed with Captain America.

Then Steve stops touching him, which is just absurd and horrible, but it's kind of okay because he's leaning back and pulling at his shirt buttons, efficient and practiced while Tony watches, aching.

The undershirt comes next in a mess of polyblend that ends up somewhere inconsequential. Tony really isn't concerned, not even a little, not even at _all;_ because, when Steve is exposed, he's a wonder of pale muscle and smooth skin that doesn't burn in the sun. Arms that can help you do things like save people, and stop you from doing something monstrous when you've spent too much time in your own head to see what's right and real. Arms that can protect you and keep you safe.

Tony sort of freezes up, because this is. This is different. This is Steve Rogers, this is _Captain America_, and he's. He's physically perfect, he is _scientifically engineered_ to be _physically perfect_ and Tony's, Tony's not—he's just. He's brilliant, sure, but he's only human. And he's defective. He's had to install hardware into his body to keep it from becoming a problem, that's how inelegant and damaged he is.

Steve touches his face carefully, and Tony realizes he's been staring into the middle distance.

"We don't have to," he says softly. "We have time. We can wait. We have time." He's on his knees, curved over Tony with his impossibly broad shoulders, shielding him with his body like he wants to—shut out the rest of the creation. To hard-boil existence down to a fine point where nothing is real but the two of them.

Or maybe that's just Tony.

He wants to insist, No, we don't have _any_ time; but his throat is dry, and all he can do is go for Steve's slacks, pop the button and wrestle the fabric over those lean hips.

By the time Tony realizes he doesn't have any condoms (why would he have _condoms_ when he's travelling without Pepper, and jesus christ is Tony terrible) they're naked and Steve's wet mouth is all _over_ him, filling in the hollows of his ribs, pulsing against the cords of his throat, tracing the scarred tissue around his arc reactor until there is nothing left in Tony that feels the even the faintest echo of imperfection.

"I don't," Tony mumbles, "I don't have," but he's self-distracted: his hand twines around Steve's cock, his thumb slicks covetously over the tip.

Steve gasps sharply, his tongue pausing over Tony's nipple. Abruptly, he reaches over off the bed (leaving Tony's flesh bereft and wet and rapidly cooling, it's agonizing) and fishes around on the floor. He's still holding Tony in place with one hand and most of his body, and when he resettles easily over him, it's like he never left.

Except for the small square foil in his hand.

Tony takes it from him, mystified. "Why do you know what this is?"

Steve rolls his eyes, exasperated. "It was the nineteen forties, not the nineteen hundreds. Military passed 'em out to all of us."

Tony scoffs, because this is patently ridiculous. "Is this—this isn't a _seventy-year-old condom_, is it? _Is_ it, Steve?"

More than anything so far, this is probably a defining moment in their relationship: Steve blinks at him, slowly. And then explains with the utmost patience, a hand creeping down to press into Tony's hip in a kind of exploratory way, "You might not know this, Tony, but these used to come in envelopes. Small paper ones." He sighs, wistful. The expression is sweet on him. "Had some pretty creative brand names."

"So," Tony mutters, because his brain is trying to figure out how Steve could be in possession of prophylactics if they aren't a relic from an earlier time, "so you—what, you _bought one_?"

Flushed, Steve wrinkles his nose and looks away. "No, they. When I woke up. They gave me some. Box of 'em, actually." He inhales sharply, because Tony's hand is still around his dick and Tony's starting to remember that, too. He pumps it once, slowly. "H-Had me attend a class about modern STIs and everything."

Tony stares at him, the wheels turning.

"Put a couple in my wallet," Steve mumbles sheepishly, cheeks flushed, eyes glazing over. "Seemed like the thing to do."

Steve brought condoms. His wallet is nowhere in sight, which means Steve brought condoms to _Tony's room_ in his pants-pocket, which means he _consciously planned this out._

Tony has lube in his nightstand drawer. He lunges for it, and Steve leans up to give him space.

Then he blinks at the bottle in Tony's hand. "You—?"

"You're the guy who came _prepared_," Tony interrupts. "Which I'd like to talk about, by the way. It was pretty presumptuous. At least my excuse holds water. No one uses a condom to jack off."

Steve looks confused, but then his face clears because Tony's tearing into the wrapper. He gets a grip on Steve's ass and holds him in place, shimmying down the bed and maneuvering that fucking gorgeous dick forward so it's at a workable angle. In no time he's rolling on the lime green latex, and because Tony's a flashy guy, he uses his mouth.

"Tony—" Steve gasps, his fists falling to tighten in the sheets. "Jesus."

If his mouth weren't otherwise occupied, Tony'd be smirking; you'd think the guy'd never gotten a blowjob before.

The heat from Steve's thighs, gentle and trembling around Tony's face, is intoxicating; he's still got his hand on that muscular ass, that olympian god of an ass, to hold Steve in place.

He plays a bit, varies the pressure in his throat, wets his lips and sucks hard to trap the heat until Steve is moaning and sighing above him. Dusts his fingers, feather-light, over Steve's balls until the sounds shift to breathy pants, half-choked whimpers.

He doesn't spend a lot of time on this, though, because he has _grand designs _on this particular erection. Intense, sweaty, eye-watering designs.

Steve makes a small sound of disappointment when Tony releases him with a wet pop. When Tony licks his lips, his blue eyes track the motion through a haze of arousal, pupils impossibly dark and forehead creased with naked want. There's no mistaking it for anything else.

Heart racing, Tony tries to get a handle on his shit, tries to conduct himself like a normal person about to bang a goddamn wet dream.

He gently guides Steve back a bit and fumbles for the lube. It's cold on his fingers, and when he sits up a little and reaches down between his legs, parts his thighs and props up his hips and pushes a finger inside, there's nothing for Steve to do but watch.

Tony takes his time; Steve is too huge to rush this, the guy's seriously packing, and it's—it's really been a while. It's an effort to focus on what he's doing, because the Steve's entire demeanor—hungry, fierce, fingers twitching like he wants _in_ on it, even though this whole show is _for_ him—is full and heavy with so many things Tony has never felt before. He hadn't even known, before this moment, that you could even _feel_ the weight of someone's gaze, like. Like a physical presence. Usually Steve's pretty transparent, but right now there's a wall between them: he's watchful with singular intent, and it makes him unrecognizable.

Tony works in a finger, and then two. Scissors himself open, and when his dick twitches, Steve licks his lips unconsciously. Tentatively settles a hand on Tony's side, smoothing the pad of his thumb over Tony's belly. It sends bursts of lightning skidding and curling in his gut.

"Can I," he asks, voice rough, hoarse and Tony isn't looking at him; can't meet his eyes because this is. It's too much, it's more of himself than Tony ever wants to give away.

Steve touches his jaw, tilts his head up. Forces the connection, stares him down, and rasps, "How's that feel?"

"Good," Tony says, breath hitching as he slides in a third finger. "But not as good as you're going to."

Steve swallows, and he's huge and straining and he twitches his hips until their dicks brush against each other. It's more than a man can bear. Tony isn't known for his patience when it comes to anything outside of his workshop.

"Oooookay," Tony says in a high, wavery breath, withdrawing wet fingers. "I'm going to have to ask you to not move right away."

Steve blinks up at him, distracted. "Sorry?"

Tony doesn't respond because he's getting his knees up, pulling at the body suspended hot and close above him. Breathing in the sharp, beautiful scent of it. Reaching down and giving Steve's dick a squeeze, guiding it forward until the swollen head nudges into his ass. He means to take him in by degrees, but Steve's apparently decided to become an active member of this shared activity. Mindless and needy, he starts to move all on his own.

"Oh _christ_," Tony moans, because Steve goes from that first, careful inch to fucking _balls-deep _inside him, and it's too much, he's too _big_, and Tony feels his body tighten involuntarily. Like he can't even breathe without bursting. He's gasping by the end of it, short and harsh, beads of perspiration clinging to his temples and lower back. It's a trial to force his body to relax, to adjust.

"Tony, oh god, Tony," Steve sighs against his ear, his arms strong and solid and cradling Tony's body close, and Tony can feel how tense he is with the effort of staying still, can smell his sweat; wants to cut great damp swathes through it with his tongue.

"Can't, I can't. _Tony_. You're, you're so," Steve chokes out, burying his face in Tony's neck.

"Shh," Tony whispers, voice uneven. He pushes with his thighs, slides very, very gently back; it's just a couple of inches, and then Tony pushes forward again until Steve is fully seated once more. Breathing hard and almost trembling with restraint.

It doesn't hurt. It's rough, but it doesn't _hurt_. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," Steve manages, in a way that makes Tony wonder how long it's been for him, if this is. If maybe it's one of those situations where a guy just needs to get his rocks off, and Tony is fucking—fucking _low-hanging fruit_, if he's. If he's ruined the great thing he had going with Pepper for something that won't—

But then Steve, his hands spread over Tony's hips, eases out as slow as he humanly can; eases back in, and it's. It makes Tony's brain derail, just wrecks the entire goddamn train, and. He recognizes the fact that he was pretty much ruined for Pepper the minute Steve refused to rise to his bait. The minute Tony got roped into _working_ for his attention, and the minute Steve Rogers told him to put on his suit to go a few rounds, right before using his body to shield Tony's, even for a few bare seconds, against the stuttering jolt of a helicarrier being shot out of the sky.

Before Tony met someone, for the first time in his life, on an even playing field.

It's been days. It feels like a lifetime.

"Are you—ready?" Steve asks, but he's pleading, moving in small increments; and Tony isn't, but he manages. Spreads his legs a bit wider in invitation, and Steve pulls out, fucks into him in one strong, smooth stroke.

It gets easier after that, and the feeling of overwhelming fullness graduates to a kind of perfect pressure that builds and builds, that threads through his belly and his back and his chest in heavy, warm bursts. That tingles in his wrists and makes his heart stutter out sharp melodies to his blood.

He comes sobbing into Steve's neck, inhaling the perfect scent of his body, and for the most part he manages to keep a lid on it.

Steve doesn't make a sound, but Tony can feel him biting it back, restraining it tight and hot behind his throat.

Spent, Steve doesn't move off of him for long moments. His weight, the sticky peel of their bodies and the gorgeous heat trapped between, the way Tony's arc reactor leaches at the highlights on Steve's face, bleeds into the gold of his hair: it creates a space inside of him, clear of clutter. A space where Tony exists, quiet and at peace, and his million-and-one thoughts don't crowd in around him, and he doesn't feel antsy or unbalanced, and he doesn't feel like the asshole who still refuses to tell Pepper he loves her. Meaningfully. Even after all these years.

After time interminable, after thoughts start slipping back into his head like sand through cupped fingers, Tony faces the gravity of the situation head-on. He doesn't bury it or hide it, but sorts through every relevant course of action. He could make noises about having to get up early, or that he has trouble sleeping with someone else in the room; he could say it would probably be a bad idea for Captain America to be seen leaving Iron Man's bunk seven hours after entering it. There are plenty of ways to delicately remove someone from this sort of situation; some of them would even be the truth.

Instead: Steve gets up to toss the condom into the trash bin, and then stands hesitantly by the bed.

In the blue light, Tony can make out faint indentions in his flesh, premature bruising that will never fully develop: ridges and angles from the pressure of metal and glass. It does something to Tony, something like possession, like synchronicity. Like belonging. So Tony hooks an arm around him, pulls him back onto the blankets. Twines his limbs around Steve's more muscular ones, fills in all the space like water sluicing down into cracks in the pavement, freezing there, expanding to close every gap between their bodies.

Steve kisses the smooth plate of the arc reactor, and then he kisses Tony. It's long and lazy and slow, and Tony can't find it in himself to bother about the mess on the sheets and on their skin.

When he falls asleep, it's to warm breath against his ear, to the afterimage against his eyelids of the shape of Steve's face beneath a tracery of blue light.

And Tony feels safe, like a child with a night-light: protected and kept.

* * *

"I'm so sorry," Pepper says against his ear, her slim arms tight around his torso. She's warm and close and skinny, something to get his hands on, something to cherish. And she loves him, and worries about him, and he's a shitty, shitty boyfriend.

He wants to say, It's fine, Pep, I hardly knew the guy.

Wants to say, He was a goddamn idiot and he _didn't need to die_.

Wants to say the things he'd said to Steve, who had listened. Who'd even understood.

But Pepper's wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, and her lashes are beaded with tears, and she's so beautiful. She's the most selfless person Tony knows, and he can't fucking take it.

Bruce is upstairs settling in, bypassing the whole Coulson-is-dead conversation, which Tony would also like not to be present for; he'd like that very much, in fact. But, as so many things in life, it's just another circumstance that can't be helped. Even if you're Tony Stark.

"You should've told me sooner," Pepper sighs, her face against his neck. Her head fits just so beneath his chin, and he squeezes her once before letting go.

"I know," he whispers.

He'd woken up alone this morning, exhausted and sated and guilty, cataloging every ache, every overtired muscle, every bruise. He'd tried to puzzle out which were products of a truly epic battle involving alien gods and magical technology leviathans from space, and which were from Steve Rogers manhandling him in bed. He couldn't find it in himself to feel regret. He still can't.

The note Steve had left for him, folded into a careful square, is in his pocket even now.

Pepper goes to kiss him and he turns his head that critical inch, tries to get some comfort from the curve of her cheek against his face. She presses her lips to the corner of his mouth and steps away, gives him space because she knows when Tony wants to be touched and when he doesn't, even if she can't always know why. It's going to break his heart when she finds out.

Not as much as it's going to break hers, though.

"I'll go check on Doctor Banner," Pepper says with a watery smile. "I'm not sure he realizes that you expect him to move in. I think he interpreted "stopping by," as "visiting for a day or two."

Tony drums up half of a grin.

Pepper looks down at her hands, folded in front of her. The she looks back up at him. "I'm glad you're back, Tony."

He doesn't say he missed her, or that he loves her. He doesn't say anything a good boyfriend should, even though it's true. He can only offer, "Sorry we broke your baby." It'll have to be enough; it's all he has.

"Not as sorry as you should be," she replies, wrinkling her nose, because it's true: he can't even wait to get started on the redesign. It's an itch in his fingers, the siren call at his back. Irresistible and ideal, and Tony can go there, to that place at his core: elements in perfect harmony, and he their divine orchestrator. Where nothing can touch him, where Coulson didn't die violently and Tony isn't a failure and Pepper isn't about to get her life pulled to pieces because Tony had to fuck up and get into some sort of, of _thing_ with _Captain America_. Where Tony isn't in pieces himself.

He likes life better as a vessel for creation. A generator of limitless constructs.

The Stark ancestral home has been acceptably updated, as much as it looks like your run-of-the-mill sprawling mansion from every nineties horror movie. It's not his favorite place; he's spoiled rotten from living at Stark Tower during the last months of its construction. And pretty soon, Pepper's probably going to start making noises about Malibu again. She loves the Malibu house. She's always said so.

But the Manor makes do for now, and Tony has an office on the main level that suits his purposes. He'll have all of the preliminary schematics ready for approval in less than a week, and then construction can start. So pretty soon he'll be living in his swingin' superhero pad with Steve, and also Bruce, and Natasha and Clint. He hopes they can get split custody of Thor, like maybe Asgard can have him every other weekend and on holidays.

He'd been kind of sad to see the big guy go, though the send-off had gone as well as could be expected; Loki, while certainly unenthused about his return home (and probably the, what, the _enchanted muzzle_ Thor had fixed over his mouth) had walked beside his brother with his eyes downcast, resigned and silent. All the fight gone out of him. He didn't even jerk away from the contact when Thor settled his hand on Loki's back, or after he thought to keep it there.

When his cell rings around seven-thirty, Tony realizes he's been holed up with his Tower plans for the better part of six hours. He's putting the finishing touches on Natasha's bathroom right now.

"Yeah," he mutters into the speaker, and there's a slight pause on the other end. It radiates disapproval.

Steve says, "That really how you answer the phone?"

"My personal mobile that maybe ten people have a direct line to?"

Steve doesn't say anything, but there's a faint sound like he's exhaling through his nose.

"What's up?" Tony asks, making the bathtub a smidge larger because, hey, Natasha: flexible, inventive, terrifying. He feels like a voyeur, designing what basically amounts to a sex playground for a couple of master assassin-spies (_probably_ a couple; the nature of their relationship is still annoyingly opaque). He's also pretty okay with this.

"You doing anything tomorrow?"

It's a loaded question, and Tony isn't sure where to begin. He's got about fifty different meetings on hold at Stark Industries that he should probably attend at some point, as well as an overdue prototype—codename StarkEngine—that uses arc technology for transportation. He has to do maintenance on his own reactor. He has to have a long, horrible conversation with Pepper. He has to make Bruce feel at home so he won't disappear in the middle of the night and fuck off back to India or wherever, and he has to contact construction workers and there's bound to be a veritable wasteland of PR garbage with this whole extraterrestrial threat thing.

And he'll be in these Avengers Tower plans up to his balls for the next hundred and fifty hours or so, because that's a physical need and he's going to be drinking away his separation anxiety every minute he doesn't have his hands in it.

But then he realizes that Steve Rogers is, very possibly, asking him out on a date.

"What did you have in mind?" He asks.

* * *

Tony's thinking dinner, which means triple-digit meals and a limo ride and really fantastic suits. And a five-star hotel at the end of the night, if all goes well (and, for Tony, it usually does).

But Steve's thinking coffee, which doesn't really mean any of those things, and heavily implies that the best Tony can hope for is another goddamn button-down shirt and pressed slacks. Not because it's fancy, or dressy, but because that's just how Steve was brought up.

They settle on an outdoor cafe that fits like a missing tooth between the rows of skyscrapers crowding in on every side. Apparently it's a place that Steve frequents, because a young girl with blonde hair and freckles smiles and waves him over to one of the tables.

"Do you need menus today, Steve?" She asks, and there's a thread of—something in Tony's gut. Not necessarily irritation or jealousy, just. He feels at odds with her familiarity.

Then she glances at him and her eyes go wide. "You're—are you Tony Stark?"

It's moments like these where he appreciates the tacit agreement between a public figure and a restaurant that charges eighty dollars for a glass of champagne: no one's going to freak out if they run into you.

"The one and only," he says, tipping his sunglasses down and flashing her a brilliant smile.

"People come here to see you fly over," she says, hands in her apron pockets. "I don't think they'd ever expect you to actually eat here."

Tony thinks, Funny story. I wouldn't have, either.

"Don't worry, I'll keep your secret," the girl gushes, lips spread in a smile that, okay, might be sort of pretty. But not really. She about scrapes the bottom of the barrel for pretty.

Steve has this sort-of smile where he's trying to show polite interest, but the truth of the matter is that insincerity is one of those things that doesn't come naturally to him. Tony's seen flashes of Steve's wry humor, has seen him weak with relief and livid with anger. Desperate and hot with lust.

"Menus," he affirms, neatly cutting off further conversation. He turns back to Tony, apologetic. "I wasn't—thinking."

"It's fine," Tony says. He orders a latte and a blueberry muffin. Steve orders coffee, black, and about half of the menu.

"How's Bruce fitting in?"

"I lured him with promises of spectrometers and resource privileges and endless lab space, except then we kinda banged up the Tower. So. As well as can be expected until we finish remodeling."

"That's... good," Steve says, drinking his coffee. Tony leans forward, elbows on the table.

"It _is_ good," Tony says. "It'll be good when everything's finished. It'll be great."

Steve furrows his brows, meeting Tony's eyes, and. He looks puzzled.

"I mean, it—won't be for a solid three months, at least. I have a lot of guys working on it, there wasn't too much structural damage, but I've redesigned the top ten levels, so."

Their food arrives, and Steve—doesn't say much. Tony wonders if maybe he's moving too fast, or whatever. But it's not like Steve won't have his own space, his own _supremely awesome space_, Tony has so many brilliant ideas for the Captain America level.

"So we're staying at my—at the house. The family house. While we wait for the remodel."

Steve looks up from his three deli sandwiches. "We?"

"It's just me and Bruce and Pepper right now. And JARVIS, but—"

"Pepper?" Steve asks quietly.

Tony's mouth goes dry. "So we need to be clear that this isn't—that I wasn't keeping this from you. Okay? This isn't a secret, I just never really had time to bring it up—"

"Let me guess," Steve says, like he's trying to tell a joke. "You're married with three kids?"

"No," Tony says, and there's no way around it: "But Pepper is my girlfriend."

The worst part? That Steve doesn't say _anything_. He doesn't look angry or upset, he doesn't look put-out. He doesn't look disgusted, which Tony supposes is a plus, but. He sort of just gets that closed expression, like he's deeply considering what's been said. He really is a level-headed kind of guy.

Tony's kind of a nut at the best of times, and his heart sinks.

Eventually Steve wipes at his mouth with the cloth napkin and clears his throat. Rests both forearms on the table. "It won't be an issue, Tony," he says.

"Good, good, I'm glad," Tony says, and he should feel relieved, but—it doesn't come. He feels anxious, he feels uncertain and more than a little foolish. "How, uh. How's Brooklyn working out for you?"

Steve purses his lips, glances around them. Glances back at Tony, but doesn't meet his eyes. It's a moment or two before Tony realizes Steve is staring at where is chest reactor sits, though right now it's invisible beneath three layers of clothing. "It's big," Steve answers. "Different."

He's probably lonely, Tony thinks, pained. "You know, you can. You can come by. Whenever you want, it'll be like Avengers Central. Until the Tower's done."

"Right," Steve says. "Thanks."

They finish eating in silence, and Tony tries to make small talk; it was only this morning that he was overflowing with questions, like whether or not Steve has an mp3 player yet or if his shield sustained any structural damage during the battle, or what he thinks about musicals.

But Steve is silent, contemplative; he isn't exactly inviting conversation. Or he could just be hungry and enjoying a quiet lunch and Tony's company. Tony has no idea, so he sips his latte and eats his muffin.

When Steve gets up without a word and goes over to the waitress, the bill is paid before Tony gets it together enough to insist he'll take care of it.

Steve comes back, but he doesn't sit down. "Thanks for meeting me," he says, and Tony doesn't know what that _means_.

"I'll call you," Tony says, standing hastily. "I need to ask you about your shield, I was throwing around percentages and I'd like to get some data from when Thor, uh. Dropped his hammer on you."

"Sure," Steve says, and he isn't smiling—not his small, shy one or his half-sized fake one. He's not even really looking at Tony.

"And you should come over sometime," Tony blurts out, doesn't even care that he's repeating himself because Steve's moving in with all of them _anyway_, that is _happening_.

Steve does look at him now, and the distant New York sun as filtered through the high towers of human progress lights him from behind, catches and glows and sets blue fire to his eyes.

Tony swallows, and. He really wants to kiss Steve right now.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Steve eventually says.

"I'll give you some time, then," Tony allows, hands up, and Steve gives him that terrible fake half-smile that means this conversation is over but he's too polite to say so.

They part ways.

Tony makes a promise to himself: he won't call Steve for a week. After Steve's had a week to think about it, to get used to the idea, he'll call him and they'll hash this out, maybe work on, on. On making this a thing.

He still has Steve's letter. His hands slide into his pocket, fingers the flat paper. He doesn't need to retrieve it; he has it memorized down to the lilt of Steve's messy, painstakingly legible scrawl. Down to the extraneous creases, the dents from Tony pressing his thumb nail into it. The pattern of the ink where it fades at the ends of letters.

It contains no romantic platitudes or declarations; it's two short, simple lines. But they're lines he left for Tony:

_Went for a run, back in a few hours. Didn't want to wake you._

_It was an honor working with you._

Steve's contact information is at the bottom, next to sketch of, of Tony's arc reactor. Perfect angles and technical shapes. An indication that he'd _seen_ it, and remembered. That he'd liked it enough to transcribe.

Tony remembers Thor returning before Steve, remembers everyone meeting up at the SHIELD-approved departure site. Remembers never getting an opportunity to talk to Steve about the _fantastic sex_ they'd had that night, about maybe doing it again sometime. About making it a regular thing, maybe, pinning this shit down because he _wants Steve_. Wanted him the morning after, wanted him the whole way home. Wants him now, and tomorrow, and probably in three months when, in Tony's ideal brainworld, they will all be living together.

There's a tight, anxious knot in Tony's stomach, like maybe he's missed his window of opportunity. But it can't be helped, and all Tony can do is all he can do.

He has time; he has plenty of time. He can make this work, it's _there_, he just. He has to sort this mess out with Pepper, which apparently involves giving Steve his space.

Tony goes home to work on the engine prototype, to let his head air-out and settle into the clarity that comes from focused, technical construction.

He ends up working on Avengers Tower plans instead, and he doesn't leave the office at Stark Manor for the rest of the month.


	2. Part II: On my deathbed (I will pray)

This story has been completely revised. I've deleted it as a standalone for purposes of organization, because this site does not support grouping fics by series. If you do not like this setup, I would recommend visiting my Ao3 or Livejournal accounts, but under the username et2brute.

Thanks,

e2b

* * *

**The Stone Series: Part II  
On my deathbed (I will pray)**

Sunlight glittering down from a bare, translucent sky. The landscape and myriad facets cast into precious jewels. Heavy chains in gleaming hematite against the white beachstone of his wrists. The stormy blue agate of Thor's eyes, and the gold in his hair.

There is little ceremony on the day Loki returns to Asgard. He is bound and gagged, guided by the warm, steady hand low on his back that never quite falls away. The keeper who watches him ceaselessly, as though Loki might vanish without his heavy and constant gaze—as though losing Loki to endless air and a wash of sunlight is a nightmare that does not bear contemplation.

But Loki has secrets, and this one carefully guarded: it is the heat that saps his strength, the brightness that blinds him. Everything warm and brilliantly lit about this day, every flash of steel or polished stone or wild rush of hair, every shelled carapace that casts shards of illumination into the sky—they tire him always. For centuries, Loki felt rejuvenated of an evening, refreshed by the colder climes. Vigorous in the dark, deep places.

And, for centuries, he knew not the truth of his progentation.

Knowing so now serves only to aggravate his discomfort, to flavor his shame with futility. To salt the great wounds of his weary eyes, because the greater the number of flaws that can be attributed to his fundamental origins, the greater is the mistake of his existence. The more surely his made-family should regret ever preserving a life such as his.

Thor eventually breaks away to survey his mortal comrades-in-arms. He is proud to have battled beside them, to have spilled blood for them—to have spilled his own, even. It is evident in every word of farewell, in the way he clasps the wrists of Captain Steve Rogers, the shoulders of Tony Stark. The way he shakes Agent Romanov's hand with both of his and bows his head respectfully to Bruce Banner. How he apologizes to Agent Barton on behalf of his—on behalf of Loki.

Loki closes his eyes. He recalls last night, the stacked hours of exhaustion and wakefulness: sleep fitful, and a cause lost to his newfound isolation, because the Other has gone from him. It is a vast emptiness, a bleak finality, after having shared such an intimate part of his mind.

(After having listened to the echoes of his thoughts like a seashell cupped to his ear, the rush of blood telling the lie-stories of ancient waves. How thoughts feel so much smaller once you can track how they resonate, how they angle back and fold in on themselves, exaggerated until nothing surely can be what you know.)

In the small hours of dawn, Thor had come to him smelling like the night sky and stormwinds. Loki had failed even to speak, let alone to turn him away or to ask scathingly after his human woman. In those moments, there had been nothing to say.

So he had simply moved aside in the cramped bed, mindful of the chains, to allow for the close-quarters contact of children at rest. Boneless and safe.

It is something Thor has not attempted for years, because it has been years since Loki permitted it. Sometimes you must tear a thing out by the root before it can bloom, heady and drugging, with a fragrance to poison you both.

Sleep had claimed Loki in a steady rhythm analogous to the resting breaths of a storm-god he had loved for the whole of his life, and despised. A god he had envied in the deep recesses of his liver, had admired in the pale, cobwebbed chapel of his heart.

He knows not what has changed, or when. If anything has ever changed at all.

Loki opens his eyes, the memory of Thor's warmth a tight crush in his chest that never quite melts away.

They have come to the center of a plaza, all lush trees and towering buildings and plain-clothes Avengers on every side. Loki has to squint his eyes to see clearly his brother's face.

No, a sharp voice whispers in the empty caverns of his psyche. There resides only , to accompany his thoughts, a pale scar in the shape of a six-fingered hand: We are not brothers.

Later, he will wonder if the bond he cannot articulate or identify—these ties that bind Thor to the rest of the Avengers, and the Avengers to each other, sticky and strong and gossamer like magic, like spider-silk—is a thing forged by Loki's own hands, engendered by grand conflicts of his own devising.

Even as Thor turns to him, gripping the ornate handle of the Tesseract's handsome cage, small bursts of despair spread through the angled halls of Loki's intestines: Thor has spoken little since his return from New Mexico, has fallen into a silence as meditative as it is rare, though he walks with a light heart. The raging beast of his anger has been tempered to a passionate simmer, and the brash and thoughtless excesses of his youth have fallen away from him entirely, a discarded mantle—and Loki realizes with a start that Thor has grown _wise_.

The sunlight sets him afire, casts him in a fierce glow, and when he meets Loki's gaze, it is with a question: Will you cooperate with me in this, or must I bind your hands also to the Tesseract?

Loki closes his eyes briefly. His imagination, however, offers no respite from the angle of Thor's jaw or the fullness of his lower lip; from the darkness of his lashes or the weary lines on his face.

The muzzle heavy over Loki's mouth, a dead weight, a veritable black hole for his magics, leeches at his energies always. This is what he tells himself as he reaches for the second grip on the device that will transport him home.

He watches the careful almost-smile, the flicker of warmth in Thor's face, as he does so. He keeps his mind empty of these two things, but the twist in his belly and the heat in his chest are not so easily erased; they are the same as from two minutes ago, as from two millennia ago.

The world breaks apart around them. As if they are the only ones who never disappear.

* * *

The All-father stares them down from on high. He sits the golden throne that Loki covets low in the damp cellar of his back: a cold lick of power that stirs and sweats in him until he is owned by nothing else.

Odin, monstrous and solid, heavier with magic even than Loki, though less with selfsame trickery, holds Gungnir in one strong hand. Wields it like a scepter rather than a spear, and his remaining eye is old beyond old.

"My child," he asks, somber through the ages. "What evils have you wrought?"

"Little enough, Father," Thor interrupts firmly. He has not left Loki's side. He is a bright presence which grates and wears like a sunburn, like wounds old and new. He holds Loki's metal half-mask, enchanted wordeater, fitfully in his hand. "The mighty of Midgard's heroes assisted me to—"

"Silence, Thor," Odin commands with all the cold finality of unending winter, and his eyes do not leave Loki's face.

Loki thinks: I wanted one thing for myself.

Loki says, "I meant to rule Midgard."

"No, Loki," Odin sighs. His voice is almost gentle. "You meant to _crush_ Midgard. To set them under your yoke!"

And there it is, implicit: that Loki cannot be trusted with the well-being of a people. That he must never be permitted to orchestrate a perfect system of ultimate law, to fine-tune the lives of every subject. To leave no room for the frictions of war and crime, illusions of conquest. It is so ridiculous that he snaps, "I would have been a great king!"

Odin's single eye is tired; in another life, Loki could have interpreted this as an expression of sorrow. "You would have been a _tyrant_. How can you not see that, even now?"

Loki has nothing at all to say in reply, but the weight of words unspoken beats furious and hot in his chest, makes him sick with it, makes him shake.

In the vast and empty twilit throne room, he feels at odds with the cool air; as though his nature has reversed polarity, as though he is neither Asgardian nor Jötun; half-formed, and reversed-out, and interminably lost.

He wonders if Frigga, notably absent, as her son loves him still. Wonders if it matters, if he would even want her to. If there are any of the nine realms who would take him, or if he is simply a being too flawed in his firmament for that heaven called Home.

On his knees, bound, his words granted their paltry freedoms, he stares at the majesty of the hall that has been a main fixture through all his life. Glossy and regal, visually delicate and stunning with all the hard strength of the king himself, this place is a cage in more ways than even Loki can name.

It closes in from all sides as a reminder, an old ache in his bones: of his childhood, reflective and traitorous, and happiness bleeding out slowly over years and years until, one day, there was nothing left in the tower of his throat but the ugly tang of jealousy.

Once upon a time, he might have belonged. He might have been able to make himself _believe_ that. Before Thor had begun to eclipse him so utterly.

Once, he had felt with alarm and confusion the growing rift that had begun to set him apart, the all-encompassing disconnect. Had felt, even before his mind began to twist inward and self-devour like an ouroboros, that Asgard wasn't any place for him at all.

And then he learned what now he knows: there is no way it ever would be.

Thor steps forward, solemn and grim, a well of reckless and unstable energy because he wants to save Loki more than anything else in the world. It's written so clearly in every limb, every look—how he still believes saving is possible.

Loki studies the rough brute of a god as well as he can without turning up his face. Even now, even here, his eyes are drawn to him, spurred on by the complication of heat and anger that alights in the stone labyrinths of his arteries whenever Thor draws near.

Asgard's future king has his mouth twisted, miserable and tight, and his fists are curled like he wishes he were holding Mjölnir. That this were a battle he could fight with his hands, and not some indiscernible thing that has ruptured betwixt all of them. He makes small, abortive movements like he would get his hands on Loki, would reassure himself of Loki's solid presence, if it were a thing permitted of him by anyone at all.

The Thor of old was impetuous and hotheaded, never one to spare a thought for his actions, nor to consider their consequences. But Loki admits—quietly, to himself, in the whispery corridors of his ear canals—that perhaps, one day, this particular incarnation of Thor could serviceably rule. Could even do so graciously.

It is quite likely that Loki will never tell him this. It even is more likely that he will never have the opportunity, present circumstances considered.

When they were very much younger, and through repetitive experience, Thor learned that Loki can vanish with a thought; that it is impossible to keep a hold of him, then or now, unless it is something Loki explicitly wants: to be held.

It once was a game, whether or not he would disappear just as Thor got his arms around him. They loved each other; they were children. Romanoff was not far wrong.

Now, the frolics of their youth come packaged with a much heavier implication. It is a thing of which Loki is keenly aware, a thing he cannot bring himself to actively resist—but also a thing he fears. Perhaps the only thing he fears.

Thor gravitates between ferocity and uncertainty while their fath —while _Odin_ passes judgement. Between what is _right_ and what he _wants_.

Between what he believes and what is patently true.

Restless, rough, tightly self-contained, Thor means to combat every tragic ultimatum; but Loki knows it is impossible to predict the entirety of any circumstance, and Thor has never been adept at managing even the most likely scenarios. He has always walked the singular path, prefers to cut through the middle while Loki dances, suspended, on the knife's edge of possibility and inevitability. Picking at the seams until a new path opens up and swallows him whole.

Thor fidgets, close and unquenchable, and Loki shifts toward him in the smallest increment; Thor stills; Loki touches their elbows together.

He does not offer support. He is simply stemming an unnecessary distraction.

All the same, Thor leans into the touch, and he almost looks at Loki, and he almost smiles at him.

Except—Odin says a word that chases every particle of comfort from his son's face.

It could be, Exile.

It could be, Death.

But Loki is listening only to the pervasive silence of his own mind, to the high and distant ring of residual magics not his own. Carefully testing a seal between planes erected hastily in a moment of enemy weakness. If he is to die at all, and alone, may it be secure in the knowledge that nothing can climb through his corpse to play havoc on the land of his birth. Some things are your own to destroy.

And if Loki never again feels the chill touch of the Other's thoughts slipping like cold water over his brain, it will not be half long enough to wait.

He turns his attentions outward, picking through the white noise until the reality of his world settles back around, comfortable and close. A quiet of the average and well-appreciated variety: his own measured breaths, soft as dawn light; the creak of Odin-king's aging knees; the harsh breaths of a god who loves him still.

...A god fierce, and strong, and absolutely powerless in the presence of this ultimate judgement.

Thor erupts, "Father, he is your _son_! You must not do this thing!" Roars, "He is my _brother_!"

Loki stares dully at chains heavy and hot around his wrists. Thinks, We are not brothers.

* * *

The royal prisons of Asgard are not without comforts, and Loki is a twofold prince. His ancestors were kings, and he was raised among kings. He has been groomed for the throne since birth, even if that somber child of his youth exists no longer. Even if he is shadowy silhouette of a ragged, half-mad memory—the _memory_ of a memory.

He is housed in a cell comprised not of transparent, curving panes, bullet-proof and shock-absorbent glass, and polymer layers—rather, it is isolation whole and impenetrable in the form of four sealed, stone walls and a floor; a curiously open ceiling to let in natural starlight; and no discernable windows or doors. He cannot even see the peripheral dawn of Asgard: there is only the great expanse of the evening sky overhead.

All entrances melt seamlessly into the stone construction, and the marble is so smooth and cool and fissureless, impenetrable, that Loki may as well be encased in ice.

Worse jails have contained him, and better; but traversing the planes has brought about a darkness, inky and cloying, that climbs into bed with his jealousy and his loneliness. That forms a veil to cloud his mind always.

He should revel in the perfect quiet, embrace the cool solitude; his mind should be expanding to take up the empty space, free of distraction. He should be able to think clearly here. After falling into the swirling chaos of the decaying Bifröst, the crush of stars like so much brittle glass—after knowing worlds diseased and pristine, and he altered for having passed them through—after his grand dismantlement, humiliating and complete by Midgard's appointed guardians—Loki should be able to _rest_.

It does not come.

Instead, the emptiness only exaggerates the somber hollows of his moods, spreads him thin, traps him in the razored cage of his psyche until the particular weight inherent to _nothingness_ can be borne not a moment more.

Without abstraction, without stars-crossing schemes or the delightful complexity of political manipulation—without even a text from an unexplored area of study to pass the time—the scrawny bones of reminiscence seek entry, beg quarter from the cold extremities of his thoughts. They bear the sweet poisons of nostalgia, the bitter aftertaste of regret.

It is only possible to turn your mind away from itself for so long before you begin to snap at your own heels.

As for now, Loki thinks not of youthful revelries, Sif and the Warriors Three and many a drunken evening. Frigga's boundless love, or times long past when Odin adored him still.

Nor does he recall brawny hands resting on his shoulders, cupped at the nape of his neck or low at the cradle of his spine. Breath that reeks of mead, or ale. Of perfect, liquid laughter like the quaking of all the earth.

A low voice near his ear, the exact flavor of thunder.

He does not think about a heavy, settled weight, burning low in the furnace of his belly; how that particular cadence of sensation arises always when Thor is near. And only.

He does not think about arrogance, or how it can be stripped away until it has become a kind of strength that Loki has never known; and he does not think about trust—he has not kept to it for years.

Loki presses his face into his thin hands and tries to ignore the endless list of desirable attributes which Thor is in possession of, which Loki is not. Every piece of his not-brother that vaults ever higher, distancing the two of them until Loki is certain: he can never stand beside Thor as an equal.

This stupid, perfect brute. This brother who loves him, who isn't his brother at all.

Loki eases into the corner, sits with his palms resting on his thighs and his back against the wall, but all he wants to do is fold his lean body into as small a shape as possible. Withdraw inextricably into himself.

Instead, he awaits his sentence as befits a god of his standing. He is no longer a child. He keeps his mask intact.

* * *

It could be hours later, or days, since his incarceration. In addition to leaving untouched the meals that have been provided—the wall splits to reveal an alcove where might rest bowls of food or pitchers of water, whatever is needed to sustain him without actual contact—he has left them uncounted. It could have been four or six; it could have been eight. They could be feeding him twice a day, or thrice, or once. He has had no desire for food.

His isolation is complete, perhaps in exchange for relieving him of that silvery, draining twist of a half mask. Thor had taken it from his face, his calloused fingers gentle on Loki's cheeks, and had never reaffixed it.

He thinks that if servants to attend him were necessary, they would likely avert their eyes regardless. Treat him as life forfeit: a not-thing.

Today, in alongside the food Loki has no interest in, there is a basin of water, clean clothing, soap. A cloth for scrubbing and a cloth for drying.

Thoughtlessly, Loki peels out of his clothes and kneels upon them, on the hard floor. Sluices water over his body, takes the opportunity to focus on the lukewarm wetness and the plain, nostalgic scent of bergamot and tarragon and lye.

He scrubs his body until his flesh is red and tender, his hair until the wild mass is gleaming and he can pick through the tangles.

The washbasin is dark with filth and old blood, and it feels as though Loki has removed a layer of himself, has exposed some new being. Has discarded parts of him which were rubbish.

He's drying his body, slowly and thoroughly, when a thunderous pounding rattles what must be the prison door. Thin angles of light edge into existence, and it doesn't creak open so much as slam up against the wall, shuddering and singing with residual force.

"Why have you not been eating," Thor demands in his angry, anxious way, but he goes quiet when he gets around his superfluous concerns long enough to actually _look_ at Loki.

Because of Thor's size, the available space seems to reduce by half; but he is also close and familiar, enough to suck from the prison all remaining air, and Loki shuts his eyes and allows himself one small moment to appreciate this. He can loathe himself for it later; it is a thing he excels at.

"I have not been hungry," he answers, glancing up at Thor. "And if I am to be executed, I fail to see how my diet is of any consequence."

The color drains from Thor's face only to rush back furious and red. It makes Loki think of the sea, of tidal rhythm: the onslaught in main force on the heels of tactical retreat.

He looks everywhere but Loki's body, his face uncharacteristically stony even as his voice shifts and warps with feeling. Like the sight of Loki is repulsive, like he is actively working to keep his disgust in check.

It has been many years since Thor has seen him laid bare, and they are no longer skinny children: Loki is all that a warrior of Asgard detests. His armor adds bulk, but beneath it he is lean and hungry-looking, all sharp edges and pale skin. Worse still, he is thoroughly bruised from Banner's hulking monstrosity; it mars his skin in great, purple blooms, black ridges, giant blue finger-marks on his arms and legs.

Perhaps Loki needed never to run away at all; perhaps he needed only to show Thor a bit of flesh to be left alone.

"Does the occasion of your death matter so little to you," Thor asks, harsh and unruly and loud even when attempting otherwise. He has never been soft-spoken. "You are—why must you twist everything you touch into—" he pauses, sucks in a breath. "You bring pain and difficulty to all things," he finally says, but it doesn't come out scathing: rather, the words are unhappy, lost. Almost wondering, because Thor cannot understand Loki's base nature. It is a thing that has been apparent for years.

"Why can we not," Thor begins, reaching out his hand. But the gesture falls flat, goes still in the empty air, when Loki moves away in something that is not quite a flinch; pulls his towel more firmly about his waist.

"Why can we not what," Loki whispers, tilting his head. He doesn't look at Thor's face; he doesn't look at anything. He reaches for the clean trousers and, after a second's hesitation, allows the towel to fall away . He does not dress hurriedly, and he can hear Thor make a rough, tight sound at the back of his throat.

They had bathed together as children. They had not known shame. And now he cannot even dress without feeling the hateful line of Thor's eyes hot on his spine, his hip. The flat planes and hollows of his chest and belly. As though he is every part of him a monster.

Thor doesn't meet his eyes until Loki has pulled the tunic over his head, has seated himself on the bench. They watch each other in silence, wary and weary.

Eventually, Thor goes to him. He does so without preamble, without appearing to have thought about it or convinced himself of anything. As though it occurs to him in the first moment: I should sit beside Loki; and in the second moment, his heavy weight settles on the stone with a faint creak that mirrors how Loki feels all along his body. The pressure he carefully contains surging restlessly for a breaking point.

Because Thor is patient now in a way he could never have managed before he was cast down to Earth, they are not shoulder to shoulder. The space between them, as much as can be provided, is more symbolic than practical: a gesture that says, I wish to be near you with your consent.

It's something of a compromise. Loki appreciates the effort, if nothing else, though something in the act is grating; it's the concept of releasing your momentary pride in favor of what you will eventually possess at journey's end. What you must see past your present anger to reach.

It's counter to Thor's very nature, and yet—and yet.

In light of Loki's sins, in light of all the ways he has brought harm to Thor—subtle and overt, malicious and calculating, sly machinations known and otherwise—here Thor sits, and here he waits. As though he is the one who has failed Loki. As though there is something, between them, salvageable. Worth saving.

Loki wonders when his brother will finally cast him out as a lost cause. He wonders what it will take.

He thinks, I have that wrong. I can never hope to convince him if I continually forget myself.

The thought is bitter within the locked undercity of his esophagus, flushed and flashing between the loose planks, the aging drawbridge of his tongue.

"Thor," Loki prompts quietly, his voice a hard rasp, and it is as though a dam has burst. This god beside him, luminous and attentive, blind in the extreme when it comes to some shameless liar who has filth instead of blood arush in his veins—this valorous god of battle, of the sharp scent of ozone and breaking storms—this god who calls him brother, who will never stop chasing him until either has died or Loki returns to him at last—this god curves toward him and hangs his golden head.

Bowed and bulky and hunched-in, and Loki with the sudden weight of one broad hand that has crept around and behind to rest high on his shoulder, the space between them falls away as though it never were. Thor has never strayed from physical contact; it is one of his most visceral comforts. If he is furious, it is his fists; if he is pleading, it is the careful caress of his palms.

His calloused thumb slides over the edge of an exposed collarbone, fingers splaying like he needs to have a better grip. Loki can smell him, can feel the heat of his breath: some things remain, even through the rigors of time and distance, beautiful and constant.

"Why can we not be as before," Thor finally asks, tension in the tightness of his muscles, all down the line of his back. "What have I done to—when did you become so—" He trails off, uncertain and sad.

Loki says nothing, doesn't move or breathe. Then he slowly unslouches to his full, seated height, his steadily-healing wounds offering a thousand small complaints. He leans slightly into the body beside him.

Even this small, rare piece of affection shifts Thor's demeanor, draws up the huge god's face. Has him watching Loki with an impossible knot of desperation and hope, even as the nervous energy drains out of his body. Like the rush of pleasure you feel of a battle, while waiting for the pain of your wounds to set in.

Thor is terrible at deception, and he is every part of him an open book.

Loki is all that undercuts Thor's better nature, the only element that leaves his happiness incomplete. He wishes them brothers in arms once more; he wishes never to spend their time together with the lingering fear that Loki will again disappear.

It is baffling to be innately ceratin of, and something quite like guilt pools in the lost alleyways of Loki's bone marrow. "Do you think me evil?" He asks colorlessly, allowing his body to fully rest its weight into Thor's brawny chest. Thor slides his hand from Loki's neck to his elbow, skidding his fingers into the hollow he finds there before latching them tightly around Loki's forearm. He grips it just above the wrist.

"Never," Thor answers vehemently. "Perhaps you are misguided, but _you are not lost_. You will never be lost, Loki."

But he says it like he's swearing an oath, and Loki can hear: I will_ never lose you_, brother.

He doesn't react for a long moment, and Thor awkwardly releases him. But he doesn't move away, and the fingertips of his right hand slip up to rest on the inside of Loki's elbow again, as though this small bit of contact grounds him. As though he traces Loki's pulse like an answered prayer. It's awful.

A moment more and Loki asks, "Thor?"

"Yes?" He studies Loki's face searchingly. He's too close, too familiar, and Loki's heart stutters and drowns behind the thin shield of his sternum.

"You've left the door open."

There is a tense, hard moment where Thor's eyes flash, where he soars to his feet, hot with intent to tear off after Loki—who, calmly, remains seated.

"You... do not flee?" Thor hesitates only a moment before sitting down again, unsure, off-balance. Loki wishes this were a trick; it would be a good one.

Instead he shakes his head: one honest expression, unlikely as that may be. "I have nowhere to go."

Thor stares at his hands and says nothing for a long, long time. When he finally looks up, his eyes are bright.

When he embraces Loki, his arms strong and warm and steady, holding him together like the crumbling foundations of a ruined temple, Loki does not struggle. He does not have the strength.

It is the first gift he has offered his brother in years.

* * *

Thor visits daily after that, until his arrival becomes a way of telling time, of passing time. Routine. Often, his adoptive brother will bring in food and mead of which Loki is surely not permitted to partake—he is still a prisoner, that much is entirely clear—but he eats in silence as Thor goes on about all and sundry. Slowly, Loki's body finishes knitting away at bone and bruised tissue until he is once more, barring all things missing underneath, whole.

Today's story involves partial nudity. It is a good day. One grows weary with tales of drinking and feasts, especially when one is imprisoned, and cannot attend for himself.

Not that Loki was ever one for that particular brand of entertainment. Not every night.

"So then Sif stole the vital attentions of the mad king by honorably removing her breast plates," he says, and Loki glances up from his folded hands with interest.

"Was he suitably distracted?" He asks, and Thor grins and absently pushes a loose chunk of hair back behind his ear. Loki watches the movements of his blunt fingers as they tangle in the pale stands and thinks of nothing.

"Suitably enough for Hogun to bury a mace in his skull."

"Lovely," Loki murmurs, but his mouth twitches and spoils the dry sarcasm with true humor.

After the initial bark of laughter, however, Thor's grin fades somewhat; grows hesitant. There is a rare, withdrawn quality to the mirth in his eyes, and Loki studies his face sharply. As a liar and a thief, inherent suspicion is his nature.

"Thor," he says, "What weighs upon your mind? I can feel from here the great struggle of your intellect." He pauses briefly. "It pains me."

There is a ghost of a smile on the other god's mouth, fleeting and gone in half a heartbeat. "I have had words with our father," he admits, and stands abruptly. At first Loki is unsure what he means to do, if he is to storm about angrily or kick the wall or—or grab Loki up, crush him against his chest. Instead, surprisingly, Thor simply folds his arms, quelling his restlessness by main force. In another life, his rage would be destructive, extraneous, cathartic but ultimately useless; now, it is focused and powerful. A tool. All over again, Loki marvels at the change in him.

That change is perhaps something possible.

"They cannot keep you locked away," Thor says, voice heavy with frustration. "You are no good to anybody in here, and you are not the only one who is punished by this arrangement."

Warmth floods Loki's chest, violent and sudden, and he turns his face away until he is sure he can suppress it. It is a very near thing that he cannot.

Thor cannot mean—Loki is _sure_ he does _not _mean—

"Our mother is beside herself," Thor adds softly, pursing his lips, and the tightness in Loki's chest slowly releases him. This does not regard—them. It will never regard them, and they need not speak of it; Loki would prefer never to speak of it. His secrets guard themselves, and he is already a monster twice over.

"Also," Thor says, pausing and resting a heavy hand on Loki's neck, "knowing you are so close, and unable to spend my days with you. At times it is more than I can bear."

"Thor," Loki says warningly, and his brother looks pained. But what can be done? How many sins must he carry on his sharp, dishonest shoulders? This: their proximity and the heat of Thor's body within reach, and so eager to touch; the look in his eyes and the bitter, yearning twist to his mouth. This is _folly_, Loki is sick from _wanting_ this, and this is—

They hear the sharp rap on the door. Thor looks away, and Loki's heart turns over in his chest, shifting like pins in a tumbler-lock.

"Your Grace," shouts one of the guards. He sounds understandably reticent. Loki does not envy his position; risking Thor's somewhat unpredictable wrath is foolish if it can be at all avoided. It is not a secret to anyone, least of all Loki, how Thor feels about him. "The king requests your presence."

Loki smiles tightly as Thor's hand withdraws; he carefully does not follow it with his eyes, or lean forward at the loss of it, to seek it out once more. These are traitorous urges that Loki cannot allow or display. They have already ruined him. But there are worse things.

Thor says to him, intent and heavy with promise: "We are not finished here. I will return within the hour."

* * *

He does not. Thor does not return for weeks.

* * *

Sif visits alone, her hair a gleaming black curtain that covers her shoulders like a cloak spun from midnight. She is beautiful the way a polished axe is beautiful, the way a perfectly balanced throwing-knife is beautiful. In the way of fresh-spilt red upon the snow, and the gilt spoils of war.

The first thing Loki asks, his voice somber and bone-dry, is, "Did you distract my guard by honorably removing your breastplate?" He keeps his face entirely without expression.

Sif strikes him, hard, across the face. As she is not one to pull her punches, Loki may or may not have a broken nose. Regardless, it bleeds profusely; he cups his hands around it.

"I am not in the habit of being refused." She snaps. " Who would dare stop me?"

"You make a compelling argument , Sif." Loki stands slowly, inclining his head. His voice comes out somewhat distorted. "It is good to see you."

There is a moment where they watch each other, and Loki knows what she sees: her childhood friend, grown gaunt and pale with heavy, sleepless bruises under his eyes, and a murderer besides. Hair the exact, lush color of her own, gone sharp and loose around the edges. Angles and lines to his face that did not exist previously, and bright, wet smears of red on his mouth and under his nose.

Eventually, she pulls a handkerchief from the pack at her waist and spends several minutes delicately mopping up the blood. Her lips are pursed in a fine line, and Loki wants to ask: Where is my brother? Why has he not come to see me?

And, frustrated, he wonders when he'll wean himself from that foolish untruth. When he'll accept in his heart that he is nothing to Thor, that there is no name for what they have become, no bond they could legitimately share.

As soon as he can accept this, he can perhaps convince Thor himself. They could have done with this, and Loki would feel this way no longer. Would not _have_ to.

"Since you will not ask," Sif spits, something like disappointment and also reservation in her fierce, pretty eyes, "he has been injured. He is with the healers now."

"You must take me to him at once," someone snarls in tones that brook no argument, that threaten pain and worse should they be ignored. By the time Loki recognizes the harsh concern of his own voice, he has already jolted to his feet, has strode halfway through the prison's open doors, and Sif is struggling to keep pace with him after she seals the chamber once more. No guard has been posted, conscious or otherwise.

"Loki," she hisses, her smaller hand wrapping tightly around his wrist, hard as iron, "you must at least offer a pretense that I am escorting you!"

Loki glances at her furious, worried face, and slows his stride. Allows her to lead him.

"I will take you to him," she says, gentler this time. "Of course I will take you to him. But if they think for an instant that I have freed you, we will both be in chains. If you run, I swear on my honor as a warrior of Asgard that I will kill you where you stand."

Loki says nothing, but he shifts his wrist so that their palms slide together. And he squeezes her hand.

When he vanishes from sight, she stiffens; but he does not let her go, and she relaxes. Because neither does he escape.

He reappears only once they have bypassed the guards outside the healing chambers and Sif has shut the door behind them. Then he floods into visibility all at once and stalks to the side of the only bed occupied.

Thor is a mess of blood and mangled limbs. His armor has been removed: beneath it, he is torn and pitted and gouged, with myriad puncture wounds. Nauseating expanses of damaged flesh.

Fandral, seated nearby, glances up from his wounded friend, mouth open to speak—and he falls silent, eyes wide and startled, when he beholds Loki.

"Sif," he asks, voice matter-of-fact, though his gaze twitches nervously between their faces, "this is wise?"

"I would speak with you," she says brusquely, and Loki feels a fierce gratitude toward her, a kind he hasn't felt for anyone, not for years.

"Sif, you were you not posted as—"

"Where is Volstagg?" She asks as they leave the room, and leave Loki alone with Thor's silent, prostrate form.

"During a crisis where he is unable to break some vital thing by accident, thereby saving us all? Eating his way toward complacency." Fandral's voice trails off, and Loki moves closer to the bed.

Thor's eyes are closed. Upon closer inspection, while there is quite a lot of blood, it is neither fresh nor flowing; much of it is probably not his own. Strips have been cut from his clothing, and the bandages look clean. But where are the _healers_?

Loki glances around the empty room, lips pursed, and his eyes settle on a fresh washbasin with clean rags. He appropriates them.

He is on the third cloth, and the water is a dull, muddy red, when Thor opens his eyes.

"My brother," Thor rasps, and Loki looks up from the wet slide of flesh. Thor's face, shoulders, and sternum are passably clean; his belly and ribs are terrifically spattered with gore.

"I am here," Loki says, his voice tired even to his own ears. "Of what idiocy have you partaken, to arrive home in such a state?"

Thor moves to sit up, but Loki forces him back down—firmly, with a hand at the base of his throat. Thor winces.

"My apologies," Thor murmurs, but it comes out as a hiss of pain. "For not returning when I promised."

"Irrelevant," Loki whispers without meaning to, and it's not exactly a lie because it's true. But hearing Thor apologize for it, for making Loki worry, is—comforting.

He wonders when Thor became thoughtful.

"Tell me what has happened," Loki commands, combing thick clumps of filthy hair out of a clean, grimacing face.

"My Midgardian warriors," Thor begins with something like a smile, and from what Loki can surmise, this is the comprehensive tale:

Thor, because he an unrepentant fool, has sworn his allegiance to Earth's Avengers. As he already considers the planet under his protection, a band of powerful allies can only bolster his efforts. But, much to Loki's irritation, this has essentially put him at their beck and call.

Thor's—_woman—_has created a portal almost, but not quite, entirely unlike the Bifröst. His descriptions of it imply, despite efforts to the contrary, that it is a vile, unstable machine which draws power through the tesseract on Asgard.

Such a thing would not be possible without the blessing of Odin All-father.

It infuriates Loki to think that this god, who was born to be a _king _among gods, should kowtow to mortals. That his father, who _is_ king, should do so as well.

Almost a month ago, Thor was summoned like a common servant. There was battle. A mortal man who can bend metal warped the links and plates of Thor's armor, curving and twisting the steel until the shredded edges pierced his flesh.

"But he could not lift Mjölnir," Thor says proudly, "even with his mind. He is unworthy."

"You will continue to go to _Earth_," Loki spits the foreign word, "to partake of battles which are not your own, alongside warriors weaker than yourself, against opponents who are stronger. Eventually someone will _kill you_."

"Loki," Thor murmurs, soft enough to surprise him into leaning closer; a big hand curves over his cheek, fingers fanning over his temple and behind his ear to hold him in place. "It was not so long ago that you sent the Destroyer to do the very same."

"I reserve that right," Loki says flatly. Caught off guard, he covers Thor's hand with his own. Presses his face into the dry palm as though it is second nature; as though he could belong here. "You great long lout."

* * *

Thor dozes, and Loki does not leave his side. No one enters—no medics, none of the Warriors, not even Sif. There's a puzzle here, something he should _know_, some obvious ploy; but he cannot bring himself to focus on it, to pick it apart. He can only slouch on the stool near Thor's bed, his hand trapped beneath Thor's heavy, curled fingers. Can only think about his words to Agent Romanoff, a lifetime ago: a child at prayer.

It would be a worthless exercise; gods have no one to beseech. So instead, Loki mentally composes long, winding arguments to present to Odin, to force Thor to abandon this madness.

It is an old wound of Loki's, but nevertheless the truth: Thor is the heir to Asgard. It is preposterous that he gallivant through all the nine realms until his body must needs return, and in such a state, as though he is naught but a weapon that requires repair.

A small part of him whispers faintly in reminder, however, of Captain Rogers. How he dutifully took his meals with Loki in Thor's absence, at Thor's insistence—kept him safe, kept him fed, kept him from isolation.

So perhaps they take care of their weapons, at the very least. They seemed to take care of their prisoners.

The thoughts flow languid through his mind, about carving out a place for yourself. About a place that chooses to _keep_ you.

It is only when a hand touches his shoulder that Loki even realizes he has fallen asleep. He goes still, but the hand remains. He sits up slowly, one arm still held hostage by Thor, and glances over his shoulder into the wise, careworn face near his own.

"My son," Odin says softly, and he is not smiling.

And he is not looking at Thor.

Loki's throat goes tight, and he looks away quickly.

"I escaped," he says, without preamble and with nowhere to go. "I am," he tries.

Odin waits, watching. When Loki can offer nothing further, he murmurs gravely, "Your brother is often blind where concerns you." He takes a seat, bending his stiff joints. Adds, gently: "As is your mother. As am I."

Loki says nothing, and his lip does not tremble. Rather, his mouth is pressed into a paper-thin line.

"Sif, however, is not quite so lost on you. You owe her a debt." Odin reaches out and pushes a yellow strand of hair out of Thor's sleeping face.

Loki looks at Odin sharply. "Is she—? She will be punished?"

Odin shakes his head. "That will not be necessary."

Loki's heart hammers in the space suddenly burst open within him: resonating, breaking loose.

"We love you well," Odin says. "Even now. Know this."

Says, "Just as well as you love us."

* * *

Loki wakes once more, this time with a hand in his hair, and he wonders if the conversation with Odin was a dream. Wonders if he is not still falling from the Bifröst after all this time, if perhaps no time has passed at all: a long, slow descent through a hollow spiral of stars, so full as to fill every space with light, so full as to appear empty: a void, numberless and without meaning.

Wonders if these are not simply fantasies and delusions come full circle, from righteous fury to a sick fever for revenge; from love flipped to the opposing facet of hate, and then flipped traitorously back like the floor gone out from under you.

Loki cannot bring himself even to covet—he desires only to hit the ground. To have something to come back from.

Thor says, "You are coming to Earth with me, Loki."

Loki opens his eyes. He's bent forward onto the bed, cheek pillowed on his bony, crossed arms, and his back is stiff. Strong fingers comb over his scalp, pressing in at temple and crown, low on the back of his neck. Loki sighs.

Thor is sitting on the bed next to him, washed and dressed, bright and warm, both feet on the floor. He appears hardly worse for the wear, within leagues of death no longer; a circumstance Loki refuses to further contemplate, because to do so ignites the sick, yellow fires of residual fear in the chimney of his lungs. It is imbecilic in the extreme.

"The All-father will never allow it," Loki says, and Thor's hand stills momentarily to drag back around and brush a knuckle over Loki's cheek.

"The All-father has commanded it," Thor says.

Loki shifts, sits up in his chair and meets eyes bluer than Jötunheim's icy plains. Than Asgard's celestial seas. Than Earth's boundless skies.

Thor hasn't taken his hand from Loki's hair. "You did not slay me," he mentions. "You were sentenced to death. And you did not slay me, even with nothing left to lose."

Loki thinks, I had precisely one thing left to lose.

Loki swallows and says, "You thought that a possibility. And you came yet."

"I did," Thor says. His eyes are soft, sincere. He is almost smiling, but he is searching Loki's face. "You have many sins to atone for, my brother. But I will not be one of them. If you truly wished me dead, than dead I would be." A shadow crosses his face. "And, were you to be executed, no good could come of this at all."

"They will never forgive me, Thor. Even if I agree to this madness."

"They will not have to," Thor says firmly. "We will save many lives together. It will not resurrect those lost, but it will preserve the living. I believe you would agree," he adds quietly, "that usefulness outlives sentiment."

Loki, caught, cannot look away; and he finds he cannot respond.

"Find your penance serving others," comes Odin's old voice from the doorway. Loki meets his gaze: there is sorrow there, and resignation. There is regret, but beneath that there is love.

It is one of the hardest things Loki has ever done, maintaining eye-contact with the man he once called father. Toward the end, it is not quite something he can manage.

"Loki Odinson, your brother is reckless and foolish. I would appreciate it if the heir to the throne of Asgard were not killed in some off-world skirmish." His voice softens. "And perhaps, if Midgard can accept Loki, Asgard may one day follow."

Loki understands penance, and pain. He understands despair. What he does not understand, what he has gotten wrong all his life, is redemption. And in spite of his critical and varied tresspasses, it is now offered to him freely.

There are times he wishes desperately that he were truly a part of this family. In the face of this gift, he can only bow his head.

* * *

Later, near the ungainly portal Jane Foster has contrived, Thor says: "My heart is glad, Loki. I would happily take these wounds over again if it meant we could battle together as a cause for good."

Loki allows for a faint stretch of silence, and then for the ghost of a smile to color his mouth. "I rather suspect that your intent when you chose to take them the first time."

Sheepish, cheeks faintly pink, Thor slings his heavy arm around Loki's shoulders. "You think yourself the only one with clever schemes?"

Loki thinks about Sif's sharp acquiescence, ushering him to his wounded brother's side. About a body, haggard and bleeding out, and the jagged feeling of imminent loss.

About a twofold gesture of faith. We love you, it says. And we prove we love you by trusting you.

The thought settles cool and strange just off the grand staircase of his ribs, coiling down and down.

There is but one problem left, however, at the heart of the matter. Thor risked limb and life to prove a point and get his way; he is a child, and reckless, and cannot be set loose on his own.

Perhaps Odin is not far wrong at all.

Loki clasps Thor's wrist in his spidery fingers. "I remain," he sighs, slow and wretched, "the only one with clever schemes."


	3. Part III: Freeway, Chapter One

**The Stone Series: Part III  
****Freeway  
****Chapter One**

  
In the white-washed present, where the layered and peeling past is juxtaposed beside strips of freshly gessoed progress, Steve Rogers can use Google. He's figured how to make calls on his bright-screened smartphone, all clean edges and bold blocks of color. He can even navigate the crooked and haphazard mosaic of modern New York public transit.

He can handle his motorcycle in the piecey jumble of city traffic, decades older than anything else on the road. He's more or less got used to the overwhelming amount of junk, a constant from all angles, hawked ruthlessly by an endless collage of marketing architecture.

He knows better than to believe what they say in television commercials. He's settled into twenty-first century life admirably, all things considered.

Doesn't mean he likes it. Just, he hasn't got much of a choice.

Problem is, after the Initiative Steve's world stretches tiny and tight around him, like a canvas too small for its frame. Listless weeks pass. His restlessness grows.

For something to do with his hands, he picks up a pack of cheap sketchpaper; pencils with a range of lead densities; a rubber eraser. He starts drawing again, and in the too-bright light of his living room, he carefully re-learns the smell of graphite. He makes hesitant plans to teach himself to paint.

He tries to reclaim bits of his past where he can, awkwardly using the internet to stream old movies and try to make sense of modern music. He researches recipes from his childhood. He tries very hard not to fumble through pages and pages of obituaries, tracing the fate of every name he can think of and find. He's successful most days.

Steve still spends a lotta time at his gym, beating the ever-loving hell outta old-world canvas punching bags against a desaturated backdrop: faded paint and discolored wood floors, waxed to a high gloss.

What Steve doesn't do is wait for a phone call, day after day. Or pay any mind to the dull ache in his chest. Or think about what it means to want someone who's made it clear they don't wanna be with you, 'cause they've got a good thing going with someone else.

If he'd known about Pepper, that night with Stark never would've happened. He's got more self-respect than that. He doesn't like hurting people. If he doesn't believe these two things about himself, he's lost.

So Steve sweeps all that junk under the rug and, instead, embraces the fierce satisfaction that comes of a job well done. Makes it his beacon, his inner firelight: chases off the sticky shadows of despair, keeps them from creeping close, cutting off his breath.

So Tony Stark used him. So what—Steve helped save New York City. In all her gilt-and-garbage glory, he saved her.

Now he's just trying to find some breathing room, fit into this bright, brittle world. There's too much space within the soft grays and blues of his apartment, too many sharp edges. It's angular and cold. Alien. He can't figure how to make it a home.

* * *

He means to go to church. He means to find one he really likes, to recapture the feeling he got when he was smaller. When he was young and physically powerless.

It would be a place, regular. Sundays. Somewhere to belong for an hour every week. He could start small, could weave a few solid strands together through the frayed and groundless tapestry his life's become. Build from there.

...But Steve doesn't go to church, 'cause he never finds what he's looking for.

What he does find—churches run outta seedy storefronts or built like fancy executive buildings. Small churches that move around to whatever litter-strewn stripmall will host them, and big, formal churches with the stone floors and high, jewel-toned windows he's used to.

None of them ring true. As if, while he slept, the _essence_ of Catholicism was altered to fit newer generations.

When Steve was a kid, the hard wooden pew had hurt his legs and his back. During the winter, the air bled in through doors half-rotted with age, feeble under decades of worn sealant and stain. Had him shivering for hours.

Churches shouldn't be comfortable. Discomfort's a reminder. It says, You're not here to feel better. You're here to_ do_ better.

Steve's not looking for absolution, so he's unhappy when he finds it. Seems to be the thing, nowadays: people do wrong by people, go to church, ask forgiveness. They don't change their behavior. Just keep hurting each other and apologizing for it.

Steve's never held with original sin, 'cause a man's mistakes are his own. A god says otherwise, that's not a kinda god Steve'd get on with too well. It's a hell of a bully who punishes you for the trespasses of others.

But, conversely, people are responsible for their own mistakes. The real sin's when you don't learn from them.

Church isn't for wiping your slate clean. Maybe you're punished for the bad you do, and maybe you're rewarded for the good—but they don't cancel each other out. None of it ever goes away.

No, Steve went to church so he could feel, at the end of the day, he'd done all he could. To be reminded when he got it all wrong. To learn to do better, next time around.

Except _next time around_ is _now_, a now where Steve's trapped in an airless sky, an isolated freefall. Searching and searching for something to come to grips with, to slow his descent. Coming up short every time.

* * *

Mondays, he meets with a SHIELD counselor. They won't let him outta the program completely, so he makes do with requesting someone new every couple weeks. He figures they'll eventually run outta people and let him off the hook.

His life's an abstract piece of art, removed of its context, ever-changing based on the angle you inspect it from. Deconstructed, the pieces scattered through time and space.

Doesn't matter how well you mean. Some things you can't put back together.

* * *

After Thor's taken Loki home in a rush of ethereal wind, after Tony spirits Bruce off to Stark Tower and never bothers with a damn phone call, after SHIELD splinters apart Natasha and Clint to perform whatever's up next on the liars-and-killers docket—Steve wakes up in the early, muted dark of morning.

In his bereft apartment in Brooklyn, the moon spilling like dusty white chalk over the empty half of his bed, he's got nothing to do, nowhere to go, and too much fight in him to sleep.

* * *

The first Monday after helping to avert a global crisis, a young woman who'd reminded him a bit of Bucky—blunt, carelessly affectionate, kinda overwhelmed by Steve in his current circumstance—asked him what he was most uncomfortable with in today's society. Then she'd asked him what he saw as constants in his life, aspects he could still identify with.

He'd thought about the barely-there clothing dames wore these days. The endless reach of skyscrapers. The cacophony of vehicles clogging the streets like a carnival of metal and blaring horns and car exhaust.

Thought about Peggy's bright lipstick and Bucky's shameless grin. Howard, brilliant and half-cocked and crookedly kind, younger when Steve knew him than his son is now.

Hydra.

The Chitauri.

The deep-sea blue of the tesseract, the shadowy teal blue of backlit ice. Falling asleep in halo of perfect pale arc reactor blue.

Eventually the girl'd said, "I don't think there's anything I can do for you, Captain Rogers." Her smile had flickered out. She'd sounded so sad. "But I'll definitely write you a referral."

That Sunday, Steve finds himself in a spare, grayscale room at SHIELD HQ, windowless under blinding fluorescent ceiling lights, sitting across from a man in a wheelchair. He's older, probably in his late sixties, with a clean-shaved head and jaw. His kind mouth looks like it was drawn on in one broad, pink stroke, and he dimples when he smiles. He looks honest. He looks sharp and clever.

Steve's not sure how someone can be each of these things simultaneously.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers," the man says. His shoulders are low and relaxed when he unlaces his fingers to shake Steve's hand.

"Agent Hill told me you came in as a special favor," Steve mentions. At this point, he's not sure what another psychiatrist can do for him. "Appreciate you taking the time to see me."

Their palms slide together, and what follows the contact is immediate and steady. Warmth. It permeates every part of Steve, swallows him whole, leaks outta his thoughts in a slow, languorous rush 'til something shakes loose.

He gets an image in his head, immobile and cold: a collection of sea glass. A stick drawing of icicles on a field of frost. Translucent stones, and sunlight filtering through leagues and leagues of wintry salt ocean.

Steve's never considered it before. How maybe, when he came outta the ice, there were pieces of him that never fully thawed.

He feels the ghost of an echo, then: warm memories, melting and indistinct. Sweet and lost to him.

He opens his eyes. Hadn't realized they were shut tight.

"Who are you," he asks, and it comes out short and rough. He's got his palms pressed to his face to cover the wetness there.

"My dear boy," the old man says gently, eyes like bright, pure flecks of sky-colored pigment on leathery paper. His hands are once more folded in his lap. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

"Which?" Steve asks. His voice is hoarse.

"The whole of your life, of course," is the kind, rueful reply.

* * *

Charles Xavier is a mutant, which isn't as much of a future-present thing as a been-around-awhile-but-only-recently-went-mainstream thing. He explains what he can do, and Steve lays down on a hard, uncozy couch and lets him get to it.

"If there is anything you wish to keep private," Charles tells him, "simply imagine the knowledge as wrapped up tightly inside of a black box. I will respect your privacy."

Steve asks, not 'cause he's concerned, but outta general interest, "That help protect me from other people like you?"

"Heavens, no," Charles murmurs serenely, patting Steve on the shoulder. "It's like painting a target on a glass skyscraper so I'll know not to peer inside."

"Comforting," Steve exhales, shutting his eyes. "Are all telepaths so considerate?"

"Not by half," Charles replies. There's a smile in his voice, and he touches the inside of Steve's wrist. Rests the pads of his fingers over his pulse. It's oddly comforting.

Later, he tells Fury: "Steven's mind is truly remarkable. Everything is very clearly divided, and there are no gray areas so much as areas weighed carefully in context. It is all quite tidy. He shows no signs of PTSD that I can detect, and his mind reacts instantaneously to any outside stimuli. He learns at a frankly alarming rate." Charles pauses thoughtfully. "It is a shame all elements of that serum were lost; from it, we might have derived treatments for countless mental ailments."

The director shows rare deference to Charles throughout the entire conversation. It makes Steve wary.

"If it isn't stress or trauma or shock," Fury asks bluntly, hands clasped behind his back as he watches Charles' face with a hard eye, "then why is he having trouble adjusting?"

Charles looks at Steve, meets his eyes with warmth and sympathy. "As overwhelming as the circumstances may seem," he says, "the root of the problem is much simpler."

His wheelchair is parked beside the couch where Steve is seated. Bent forward with his elbows on his knees, Steve glances at him curiously. Like this, they're almost of a height.

Charles sighs. "Steven is lonely. He needs regular social contact."

Again, Steve feels something creak and ache in his chest, feels a coldness that bleeds out by degrees.

Charles says, with a firm kinda gentleness that surprises him, "You can't assign him friends, Nick."

After he leaves, Fury stands stiffly at Steve's side as they watch the X-Jet lift off. It seems unnecessarily opulent. Tony doesn't fly all over the city unless he's Iron Man, and Steve thought _that_ was flashy.

He's starting to realize he's moving in the circles of some very powerful people. That maybe Tony's flashiness comes mostly from Tony's personality.

And now he's thinking about Tony again, so he stops.

"Rogers," Fury says, turning away from the landing pad and heading back into SHIELD HQ. The wind sweeps across the flat rooftop, causes his long coat to twist and snap. "I'm assigning you some friends."

* * *

Natasha's at his door the next day. She's got on jeans and a light jacket, her hair short and choppy in a tiny ponytail at the base of her neck. She doesn't look like a spy. She looks like someone's girlfriend.

Not that she can't be both, Steve thinks conscientiously. He wonders if he's being sexist.

"If you call me 'ma'am'," she warns before he can say hello, even as she pushes past him into the apartment, "I'll have to murder you with a penknife. I won't have a choice."

"They still got those?" Steve asks, stepping aside.

"I'm sure I could find one lying around," she says with a narrow blade of a smile, "but if not, I've worked with less."

It's not 'til after Steve shuts the door that he realizes he's essentially a bachelor, alone in his living room with a beautiful dame. The air smells just the slightest bit different.

It doesn't have the impact it otherwise might've, in a different time and place. Also, he's seen her take down alien monsters with her thighs. If that's not the clearest definition of _boundaries_, Steve can't say what is.

"Noted. What can I do for you, Miss Romanov?"

"Natasha," she corrects. "And you're taking me out to lunch."

She chooses a bakery-cafe picked out in pale greens and muddy browns. It's got high windows, frosted on the bottom, with a bar table underneath. The spindly stools have short backs and tall armrests.

They sit together and look out the window. Natasha watches the strangers outside, and maybe she's daydreaming. Maybe she's taking in every small detail, maybe she could hunt down any random dozen pedestrians ten years from now, tell them what they were wearing out on the streets today.

He's glad, suddenly, to be here with her. To know she won't fill the silence with stilted conversation.

He puzzles over French-sounding appetizers. The waiter doesn't even look up from his order pad when Steve stumbles over the words, feeling cramped and bulky. But it's not horrible. With someone else here.

"Pretty soon you'll be just like every other New Yorker," she adds, sipping mineral water. With the sun on her face and shadow just behind her, she's a study in contrasts and contradictions. Color where the light touches her and darkness beyond. A beautiful facade in pale washes over the sharp lines of her hard, base nature.

Steve wonders if she'll let him paint her, someday. When he learns to do it properly.

He smiles. It's not very big, but it doesn't feel forced. "Way I see it, I'm pretty much the original New Yorker nowadays."

"I'm sure Stark would have something to say about that," Natasha purses her lips, eyes dancing. She uses her fork to angle off a piece of her lemon poppyseed cake for Steve. At first he thinks maybe she'll spoon-feed it to him, like his mom used to when he was sick. He's not sure where the impression comes from—he's in perfect physical health, and Natasha is nothing like his mother.

She sets it on the corner of his plate.

"Then again," she continues, "He'd argue the color of the sky. Convincingly. Just to prove he could."

Steve eats the bit of cake. It doesn't taste at all like he remembers—it's sugary and bland. The flavor distantly echoes cellophane. He wipes at his mouth with a napkin. "No, I think it's more he'd argue to make sure you knew what you thought you knew."

Natasha orders a latte and Steve thinks, Socrates. Tony is like Socrates. He wonders how he never made the connection before.

Unsettled, Steve can't help but draw parallels. He knows how one of these stories ends. He knows what happens to people who pick other people apart to see how they tick. At worst, Tony makes enemies outta everyone who can't hold together under his scrutiny. At best, he finds people he like and approves of, and by the end they want nothing to do with him.

"Fury told me to set up regular playdates for you," Natasha says eventually. "But I'm a busy girl. I'd delegate to Clint, but he's on a hit in Argen—," she pauses at the look on Steve's face, and her own hardens almost imperceptibly. "I know how you feel about it, Cap," she tells him, and this is what he likes about Natasha: she's whoever she needs to be on a mission, but when it's just her, she always gives it to you straight. She reminds him a bit of Peggy. Solid, even if she's not a sure thing.

"You guys aren't," Steve starts, and he's got no idea what to say that's not _murderers_.

"Bad guys? We are," Natasha says, not unkindly. "But less, now." Her full lips flatten into a thin line, but her eyes've softened. "It's hard to be a spy when you're a famous superhero."

Steve drinks his coffee and doesn't reply.

Natasha looks like she's about to say something else, but then her phone starts to vibrate. It's quieter than most of the modern-day noises Steve's learned to tune out. He's got sensitive ears; there's hardly a day goes by he doesn't gotta sit through some irritating sequence of buzzes and hums and jingles. Makes him kinda hate being in public, now and then.

When she answers, her face immediately slips free of all expression. "Is this going to become a habit, sir?" A pause. The barest trace of a smirk. "Seventeen-hundred sharp, got it." She hangs up and gets to her feet.

Steve stands outta habit and watches her gather her things.

"This mission has been officially aborted," she tells him, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder. "But if you ever want to hang out, call me sometime. Thanks for lunch."

Steve offers his hand. She stares at it, then up at him. Rolling her eyes, she gives him a one-armed hug around the waist, too quick for him to flounder or feel awkward. "I should be back Thursday afternoon," she says. Today is Monday.

She leaves after making sure Steve's got her phone number.

He takes his time finishing his coffee. He doesn't finish his cake.

On the way home, he stops at Old World Grocers and asks Tom, the eighty-ish owner and manager, if he's got any traditional cookbooks.

He shows Steve the rack, and Steve takes his time picking through the faded volumes 'til he finds the recipe he's looking for.

He purchases the book and the necessary ingredients. He also tries to buy groceries for the next week. It's not something he's used to, stocking up. Before he joined the army, he never had that kinda money. While he was serving, he never had to cook.

He gets home, does a thorough inventory of his baking utensils. He's able to roughly approximate what he needs.

Then he reads the instruction manual for his oven. Eventually, he preheats it.

As he stirs poppy seeds into batter that smells like lemonade, he thinks: Here's to the twenty-first century.

* * *

At noon the next day, after Steve's run about twenty miles and just as he's getting outta the shower, his phone rings. He doesn't recognize the number when he answers. "Hello?"

"Steve." It's Bruce's voice, soft and steady. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, of course not. Can I help you, Doctor Banner?"

There's a slight pause. "I think we can dispense with formalities," he says, amused. "You've fought beside the—other guy. And you've seen me naked," he adds as an afterthought.

Steve coughs out a startled note of laughter. "You got a point there. Bruce."

He can hear the doctor's smile frame his reply: "Are you doing anything later? I was wondering if you'd stop by Stark Manor. I'd like to take a blood sample, if that's okay." He pauses, and Steve waits. "If it isn't, I completely understand."

"This about the serum?" Steve asks, shifting his phone between his ear and his shoulder.

"Right," Bruce sounds hesitant. Steve supposes he would, too, if he were the failed experiment talking to the guy who got lucky.

"Sure," Steve says. "What time?"

"Well, that depends. How long will it take you to get here?"

About a half-hour later, Steve finds himself outside a huge mansion that's got none of the clean, modern lines Tony favors and all of the artless grandeur Howard thrived on.

He rings the bell. No one answers. He rings again, and there's muffled yelling, a distant thump, and then a minute or two of silence.

Eventually the door opens and, for the first time in three weeks, Steve is face-to-face with Tony Stark.

* * *

"Steve," Tony says, eyes wide and surprised. His hand is loose against the door frame. He doesn't seem to have the presence of mind to let Steve inside.

Steve kinda wants to skip past whatever awkward conversation they're gonna have. And he kinda wants to shove Tony up against the wall. And he kinda wants to punch him in the face.

He recalls, in hazy detail, his last morning on the helicarrier. Sitting on the corner of Tony's bed, still damp from a slow shower in Tony's bathroom. Scribbling a terse, careful note with nervous hands beside a sleeping body. If he'd listened to those steady breaths a little while before leaving—well, Steve's lost a lotta people in a handful of instants. The world may long be over the bright lives of Bucky Barnes and Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandoes, but Steve's grief is fresh. He takes what comfort he can.

"Tony," Steve finally acknowledges. "Is Doctor Banner—?"

"Bruce, please, Steve," Bruce says from somewhere inside, and Tony finally gets outta the way.

Steve does everything he can not to touch him as he passes by, but he feels the ghost contact of fingertips low on his back. When he looks over his shoulder, Tony's shutting the door, hands to himself. Not even looking at Steve.

"I want to be clear," Bruce murmurs, his knuckles twisting together. He guides Steve through the front room by his elbow, almost as an afterthought. "I respect you as a person; I am not objectifying you; you are not a lab rat." He smiles in his restrained, careful way. "That said, I'd like to take some blood samples and run a few comparative analyses."

"That's fine," Steve says. Now he thinks about it, he wonders why this didn't come up sooner.

Bruce excuses himself to finish setting up, and Tony says, "Are you hungry? There's coffee—"

"Coffee's still not food," Steve murmurs without thinking. Tony glances sharply at him, expressions unidentifiable and tight and unhappy warring over his face.

"I remember," Tony says, his words suddenly heavy with everything between them, and Steve crosses his arms. Just for a place to put them. Steadfastly refuses to think about that conversation, the one where he'd realized how _bad_ Tony was at taking care of himself. The one that made Steve want to do it for him. Just to be sure it got done.

Tony watches him for a long moment before ducking his head into the refrigerator. It's much bigger and more angular than the one at Steve's apartment.

Steve leans against the countertop a safe distance away and thinks about nothing. Including the canted lines of Tony's body, or how the bright yellow kitchen lamps catch the curves of Tony's face. Soften the fine shape of his bones, rather than throwing them into sharp relief.

The color is wrong, warm and vibrant against Steve's quiet memory of cool arc reactor blue in a dark room.

It's so clear in his mind his mouth goes dry. It's been nearly a _month_, and he _still_ spends every morning coming into his fist, gasping Tony's name. It's that bad, this thing. He needs to shake it. Tony's got someone, Tony's happy, Tony made the mistake of not saying no when Steve _threw himself at him_. It's no one's fault, it should never've happened, and Steve needs to get _over it_.

Tony emerges with a plastic tupperware container. He passes it over, a metal fork balanced on top. "Cold pasta," he says, mouth quirking. "Bruce does most of the cooking these days. So, leftovers."

"Right," Steve says around the knot in his chest. The bowtie noodles are dark green and red and yellow, and the dressing is spicy and oily. It's good, when he takes a bite of it. So he takes another, and it's great this time 'cause he realizes he doesn't have to talk.

Tony makes coffee in relative silence. Presently, they're standing and eating and drinking, not looking at each other and not saying a word. There are perfectly serviceable chairs in the otherwise-empty kitchen, but neither of them sit.

It becomes increasingly difficult to ignore their proximity—details like soft, worn jeans and a faded blue t-shirt. Wild hair. A smudge of black on a stubbled chin.

Tony looks like he hasn't slept in days. Without the extra layer of distance afforded by expensive slacks, without button-downs and suit jackets and ties and fancy shoes, without his damn _armor_, he looks bare. Approachable and human. He looks touchable, and Steve's got his heart in his throat.

"What," Tony asks, knitting his eyebrows together. His sleeves are rolled up. When he reaches over to refill his mug, there's a crease on his elbow from leaning against the counter.

"Nothing," Steve says, looking back down at his food.

Tony exhales through his nose. Then he says, all at once and into his coffee, "I'm sorry I didn't call." He tilts his head up, meets Steve's eyes like it costs him something, like he doesn't have everything he's ever wanted in the world. It's frustrating to no end. "I meant to call, but then I thought I should give you some space, and then I got caught up with the Tower plans and I just," he gestures elaborately, except his shoulders are kinda hunched in, "...didn't."

"It's fine," Steve says, 'cause it's gotta be. Doesn't matter how his chest's gone hot and tight. Doesn't matter how it's awful, that someone can make you want them, make you miss them. They don't even mean to: they don't even need you.

Tony sets his half-empty mug on the counter. "Look, Steve—"

"Sorry about that," Bruce says, wandering back into the kitchen. He's wearing loose cotton pants. Steve hadn't noticed before, but his dark gray t-shirt's got the Black Window sigil picked out in red. "I had everything ready, but then Tony accidentally took out one of the divider walls. It was kind of a mess."

Tony's at least got the grace to look ashamed. Sorta. "Hazards of sharing a lab."

"You could really hurt somebody," Steve says. It comes out angrier than he means, and a fresh flush of irritation rushes through his body when Tony simply shrugs.

"Bruce is pretty much indestructible," he points out. "My lab, my lab equipment. Are you saying I can't break my own things, Rogers?"

"You need to think about other people," Steve says. "You—"

'It probably wouldn't kill you to get some rest," Bruce mentions lightly, "before updating the armor's touchier protocols."

Something ugly and hard crosses Tony's face, but for whatever reason it dissipates as soon as he meets Bruce's gaze. "It was a relatively small explosion." He gestures benignly. "I'm doing better."

"Right, well," Bruce says with a half-smile before turning to Steve. "Moving right along."

Steve ends up sitting on a medical table in the basement. It's drafty and not at all what he expected, but Stark Tower's still being rebuilt and this is technically just a home. A really big, really expensive home.

He wonders if Howard ever kept a lab here. He wonders a lot of things about Howard, really. Maybe someday he'll be able to ask without the accompanying twist in his chest.

Nearby, Tony is fiddling with—schematics, Steve thinks. For some kinda machine. Blueprints suspended in the air, delicate and ever-shifting, as endlessly incomprehensible as lovely. Breathtaking like flame and spun glass when you've only ever worked with chisel and stone.

Tony looks up at him, and Steve looks away.

Bruce, who's been prepping a needle, takes Steve's arm in his hand. "I want to be clear. I'm not going to try to reverse-engineer the serum." His fingers are splayed, blunt and careful, dark beneath the thin latex of his gloves, over the alcohol swab on Steve's skin. "I'd just like to see if I can determine where I—went wrong. Maybe use your blood to fix mine."

He looks uncomfortable. Steve doesn't understand why.

"I trust you," Steve says soberly. He looks at Bruce's face, finds his own reflected back at him in the doctor's glasses.

Bruce raises his eyes, startled. He nods wordlessly and reaches for the syringe.

"Bruce," Tony says, and he's suddenly hovering close, all hands and gentle earnestness. "Brucey-Bruce. I can field this part if you wanted to warm up the centrifuge."

There's a span of seconds where they have a fleeting, quick conversation with their eyes. Steve almost misses it.

But he didn't miss the slight tremor in Bruce's fingers. And he doesn't miss Bruce nodding gratefully at Tony before turning away.

Tony situates himself between Steve's knees, takes Steve's elbow in hand and leans in close. He smells like laundry detergent and coffee and sweat. There's a whiff of smoke in there, a hint of plaster. There's shampoo. Salt.

"He okay?" Steve asks softly, voice pitched low so Bruce can't hear them across the room. He tries not to think about body heat.

"Make a fist," Tony instructs, tapping the vein. Steve hardly feels the needle.

As the tube steadily fills up, Tony says quietly, "He has a lot of bad memories. Relating to blood. And experimentation." He pauses, pressing a cotton ball over the puncture site as he withdraws the needle. Then he brushes his thumb over the tiny red mark left behind. It vanishes in moments. "And the other guy."

Steve watches Tony's face, takes in the sleepless, half-moon bruises under his eyes, the uneven trim of his goatee, the looseness of his mouth. Thinks about his lips, how they taste. How they feel stretched tight around Steve's cock.

Tony sets the syringe on a table. When he turns back to Steve, mouth open like he's about to say something else, his breath hitches.

Steve stares him down, defiant, aware that his cheeks are flushed and his heart's racing. Aware that Tony's taking in every detail, eyes catching on Steve's lips and the flash of his throat.

"Steve," he chokes out, and he's reaching his hand forward to touch Steve's face, and Steve's not—he can't turn away. He can't actually stop this. Tony's engaged and Bruce is yards away with his back turned and Steve can't _stop this_.

But Tony apparently can, 'cause his hand falls away. He turns sharply, gets his fingers around the vial of blood and walks away.

Steve wishes he'd never learned what it was like, falling asleep with him.

"Here you go, gumdrop," Tony says easily. Presses the tube carefully into Bruce's waiting hands on his way to the stairs. "I'm gonna pass out for like. Two hours. Wake me up early in the event of science or dinner."

"Science or dinner," Bruce echoes pleasantly, and Tony leaves without a backward glance.

Steve hops off the table and tries not to stare after him like a lost kid.

"This next part isn't really as exciting as it sounds," Bruce says, motioning toward the centrifuge. Steve moves to stand next to him.

"If it's gotta do with finding a cure for the Hulk," Steve replies, "I'd say it's pretty exciting."

Bruce flashes a sideways smile, small and quick. Steve wonders if, before he moved in with Tony, he was as isolated as Steve is now. If he's still getting used to having other people around.

He's fiercely glad that Bruce isn't alone anymore.

Steve's outta his depth with science, so he watches Bruce's face instead of his hands. The wrinkle in his forehead, the focus of his deep-set eyes. Sometimes Bruce explains what he's doing, and sometimes he doesn't.

At one point he's got the sample under a microscope. There's a second sample too, from a glass jar labeled _green_.

Whatever happens on the glass must be vitally discouraging, 'cause eventually Bruce steps back with his hands in a tight knot at his navel. He's staring blankly at the slides.

"Doctor Banner?" Steve asks quietly. Then he says, "Bruce."

"I'm sorry," Bruce says. "Could I—I'd like to be alone for a minute."

Steve's a man who values privacy as much as anyone else. But he also knows what it's like to send someone away, not 'cause you don't want them—but 'cause you don't know you _got_ them.

Steve touches Bruce's shoulder. "Tell me what happened."

There's a beat of silence, anxious and sad. Then Bruce says, "Okay. Yeah." He exhales slowly and rhythmically. Carefully untangles his tight, desperate hands from each other and lets them fall to his sides. Then drags his eyes to Steve's face.

The bone-deep disappointment that radiates from his small, compact body makes Steve sick in his guts. It's a tremendous relief when his thready voice eases into practical detachment.

Bruce says, "The way my blood cells react to certain potential treatments tells me whether or not those treatments will be successful. Best case—the Hulk cells will succumb to the treatment and all traces of the other guy will be eradicated." He pauses. "Worst case, the Hulk cells infect the treatment cells. That's what usually happens."

"And this time?" Steve asks, pretty sure he knows already. Bruce looks up at him, smiling flatly. It's so many leagues from good humor that Steve wonders that it's even a smile at all. Bruce seems full of these not-smiles.

"What happened this time," Bruce says, angling in a bit, "was nothing. Congratulations, Cap. The serum makes you invulnerable to infection by its angry green cousin."

"Bruce—"

"But you aren't a cure." Bruce turns away. "I had this funny idea that maybe I was just—unfinished. That all I needed was a, a missing part of the code." Even though he doesn't say it, Steve can hear it clear as day. How he was probably Bruce's last lead.

"Well, back to the drawing board," Bruce says, except he's turned so his back to Steve. His face is hidden, and his voice is the same as it always is. But there's something crucial and telling to the angle of his hunched shoulders, the way he's ducking his head. How he's got a hand on the counter pressed flat, like it takes everything he is to keep from curling it into a fist.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, 'cause there's nothing else. He doesn't bother hiding the sympathy in his words. Peggy'd hate it, Tony'd hate it—plenty of people would hate it. But Bruce might feel just that smallest bit better 'cause of it. Might not see it as pity, just fellow feeling.

"It's not your fault," Bruce says. "It's mine."

"Doesn't mean you deserve this," Steve says. Then he adds, "Can't believe Tony wouldn't leave you alone about it." He remembers walking in on them on the helicarrier, Tony poking and prodding at a dangerous situation just to watch it go off. How angry Steve had been, and how worried.

"Well, he's not the first brilliant, dark-haired scientist to cross my path. Or to want to help me." Bruce starts to tidy up. When he finally turns to face Steve, he looks rumpled and solid. Composed. He touches Steve's arm, and Steve feels a surge of affection that, oddly, kinda reminds him of Natasha. "But he's the first person I met—after—who was more interested in me than the other guy."

Steve says, "I think Tony's like that. With people he loves." He's not sure where it comes from, but it hangs there between them.

Bruce is silent for several moments. "Yeah," he says finally. "He is."

* * *

Steve goes home and makes supper. He's got a slice of lemon poppyseed cake for dessert, and it's just as good today as it was yesterday.

Before he falls asleep, he notices the status light flashing on his phone.

He hasn't got any missed calls, but there are two text messages. Both from Tony.

_Why didn't you stay for dinner?_

_Tomorrow you're staying for dinner._

* * *

Steve doesn't actually plan on visiting Stark Manor again, but that's where Fury tells him to go when he gets the call, early next morning, to suit up.

Thor's in Asgard. Widow and Hawkeye are outta the picture, probably outta the country.

So the first time Steve faces down the militant, volatile mutant named Magneto, it's with Iron Man and the Hulk at his side.

Specifically, Iron Man's above. Hulk's just behind, scaling a building, bulging muscles coiling and stretching for the jump.

Magneto gestures with his elegant fingers, and the hood of a car peels back and away. Swirls through the air like a bolt of cloth, spins into a point.

It becomes very clear, very quickly, that Tony's at a horrible disadvantage.

Their opponent can twist metal with his brain. He can levitate metal and use it to fly; he can shape it into piercing projectiles and send it hurtling through the air, and Tony needs to get the hell _outta here._

"There's a safe distance," Tony insists over the comm. "There has to be, if I'm far enough away I don't think he can—"

That's when the line goes dead in a crush of static. Steve jerks his head up and around, sees the stilted flash of red and gold against a summer sky.

The thing about vibranium is concussive force disturbs it about as well as light disturbs a mirror. The other thing about vibranium is it's not physically heavy.

A third thing, a thing Steve's only learning just now, is that Magneto can't control it or deflect it.

That's how it looks, anyway, when Steve flings it at his head.

Tony's falling to Earth in monochrome, a gleaming tumble of precious stones. Hulk's screaming and launching himself through the air, a disruptive and unnatural streak of green. Magneto's dazed and listing like a half-finished portrait, composed of uncertain and badly-sketched lines. But he'll be righting himself soon.

Steve's unarmed, outta his head with worry. His hands are sweating; there's fear all down his back. He experiences abject terror, thinking about the damage Hulk's gonna do trying to catch an already-mangled Iron Man—

—and that's when, over a crash of thunder and a burst of bright lightning, Thor appears.

* * *

Jane Foster cries more than any dame Steve's ever met.

It's three hours later and they're in Tony's kitchen. Bruce is exhausted and pale in a baggy Captain America shirt, gratefully sipping coffee. The skin under his eyes is the stained blue-gray of storm clouds, bruised and translucent. Steve's showered, changed outta his uniform into slacks and a button-down. There's a lukewarm mug in his hands, untouched.

There's blood on the tile floor and Miss Foster's shirt.

Tony's leaning awkwardly against the counter. It's a repeat of yesterday, except this time his arm's in a sling and Steve isn't eating leftovers. Or thinking about Tony's mouth, his hips. His firm backside.

Steve willfully refocuses on the matter at hand.

"It's my f-_fault_, I didn't know, I," Miss Foster sobs. If Thor were here he could hug her, maybe. Quiet her down, offer some comfort. Instead she gets Steve, who's still kinda shy with dames on his best days, and Bruce, who's not in any shape to help someone else right now. Who's looking pale and weak and sick.

So Miss Foster's stuck with Tony.

"It's not your fault, it's Magneto's fault," he's saying irritably. There's a hot flush in Steve's chest, a rustling of residual worry and relief: that Tony's okay, that Tony's talking and drinking coffee and frowning at his arm. That Tony's not a broken red smear on gray pavement.

"But if I hadn't gotten the portal to work," she sniffs, and Tony rolls his eyes. Since he's such a sympathetic guy.

"Okay, I take it back—go ahead and regret one of this century's greatest scientific achievements because your boyfriend got a little banged up." He's got that ugly look again. He's gonna say something awful this time, Steve's sure of it.

"Tony," he means to say, but Bruce beats him to it. Raises bloodshot eyes.

Tony looks at Bruce, lips pursed. His expression doesn't exactly soften, but some of the malice drains away.

"I'm sure Thor will be fine," Steve says to fill the silence. "Look, your portal got him back to Asgard, right?"

Miss Foster hiccups in response. Steve takes this to mean yes.

"When we had Loki in custody, we were able to observe his healing capabilities. They were beyond even Steve's," Tony offers. It's his version of a compromise, if not a concession. He's really an asshole. Steve's palms twitch with the urge to touch, to search with his fingers 'til he can affirm and reaffirm every part of Tony is safe from harm.

She scrubs at her eyes. Her brown hair is loose and messy around her face. Arbitrarily, Steve thinks about dark-haired scientists and helping people. "You're right," Miss Foster says. "I'm sorry, I just. I'm so _worried_."

"Not to beat a dead horse, but I've got _shrapnel_ in my heart. It's made out of _metal_. So I'm pretty happy Thor was here to distract that assclown long enough for Bruce to scare him off." Tony says, jaw tight.

Steve dumps his coffee into the sink and rinses out the mug. Doing so brings him closer to Tony. For damage control. This is his completely logical reasoning. It's got nothing at all to do with the angry set of Tony's shoulders, the angle of his thighs. The swell of his arms in the tight sleeves of his t-shirt.

Fortunately, Fury comes in before any Stark-is-mean-to-girls complications manage to arise. He wipes his hands on his black slacks, then settles them on his hips. He looks weary. "Foster, Agent Hill will direct you to your flight home. Banner, how much blood would you say you lost?"

Miss Foster shuffles over to Hill, who's appeared at Fury's right hand.

"It was nice meeting you, ma'am," Steve says politely, and Miss Foster flashes him a watery smile before Hill leads her away.

Tony says nothing, just leans back with his palms on the edge of the counter and stares at the floor moodily.

"—but if I had to estimate," Bruce is saying, "I don't know, a pint and a half? I feel light-headed, but not like I'm about to die." His mouth quirks faintly, like it's some kinda joke.

Tony must notice, 'cause he goes pale. His face sets again, and he isn't looking at Steve, but he does shift marginally closer. Then he says, "Are we done? Can we be done? I'm definitely done."

Fury's eye twitches over to Tony, his expression unreadable. "Get out of here, Stark."

"Steve, you're coming too. I need to figure out why that prick couldn't brain-control your shield."

"Sir?" Steve asks, glancing at Fury.

"Fine." He turns back to Bruce, clearly finished with the two of them. As Steve follows Tony outta the kitchen, he hears Fury say, "I didn't think the other guy could bleed."

Hears Bruce reply, somber and wondering, "You and me both, Director."

* * *

"You okay?" Steve asks. He tries not to think about Thor's armor turning against him, twisting and burrowing into his flesh. The bright fan of Hulk's blood as shards of metal shredded through his obliques. The way it fell like rain as he plucked Tony outta the sky, the way it coated all of them.

Fact of the matter is, the other guy's blood can kill regular people. Steve's safe 'cause of the serum, and Thor's an alien and maybe a god. Tony, though—that was all luck, that his armor wasn't punctured. That it remained sealed, even with one of the shoulder joints twisted up and in on itself.

Steve's trying very hard not think of everything that could've gone wrong, but didn't. You can't get by on luck forever.

"Gimme that," Tony mutters, manhandling Steve's shield outta his hands. He's followed Tony downstairs.

Tony shuts the door behind them. They're in his workshop.

Then he throws Steve's shield on the floor.

"Stark, what—," Steve begins, outraged, but Tony's shoving him up against a wall with his uninjured arm. Kissing him.

His mouth is hot and wet, searching. Perfect. Steve opens to it automatically, and it's like a light bursting behind his eyes. He can't see past it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't. I didn't mean to," Tony mumbles against Steve's lips, his hand sliding up into Steve's hair. It's still wet from his shower. Tony tightens his fingers into a fist, tugs sharply at it.

"Tony," Steve says, the word hardly more than strained breath through his tight throat. The vague anxiety that's been plaguing him for weeks, the tight knot of unhappiness and despair churning black in his guts, it all falls away. Just like this.

"No, I just." Tony's still talking, still kissing him. Scraping his nails over Steve's scalp, dragging them down over Steve's neck and lower. Palming Steve's waist through his shirt, snaking his hand up underneath to splay over Steve's bare back.

Steve tries to push Tony away. He ends up crushing Tony to his chest.

"I didn't mean to _do this_," Tony gasps, "I just meant to, to yell at you or," he breaks away, but he doesn't go far. Just mouths Steve's jaw, nuzzles just below his ear and breathes in. "Meant to give you time, need your space, I can't, I," and then he shuts up 'cause Steve's kissing him again.

But he manages to stop. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done, pulling away from this—this _mess_. Tony, flushed and warm in his arms. Tony with bedroom eyes and messy hair. Tony who doesn't smell like blood anymore, who smells clean and safe, who's getting married to some dame named after a condiment and who kisses Steve like he _means_ it when he _doesn't_.

"Can I," Tony asks, lips swollen.

_Pepper is my girlfriend._

Steve turns away. Gets some space between them.

_It won't be an issue, Tony._

Steve clears his throat. "You were gonna look at my shield?"

Tony looks confused at first. Then his eyes sharpen like chips of stone. "Right," he says. Steps carefully away, and except for his flushed cheeks and wet mouth, this might never've happened at all.

It's for the best, even as Steve's world slots back into place, heavy and overbearing. Even as that awful feeling blooms in his gut all over again. That sense of loss and detachment. That sense of unbelonging.

It's for the best. Steve's never hated anything half so much.

* * *

When Steve gets home, he goes for a walk. It doesn't help to clear his mind, but a distraction is all he's really looking for right now.

Tony'd explained the shield to him this way: vibranium isn't very good at reacting to things, it's good at neutralizing things. He'd talked about molecules and vibrational distribution. The gist of it seems to be, Magneto's like anyone else on the planet—he's not strong enough to break Steve's shield, just like he's not strong enough to lift Thor's hammer.

It's comforting. It's a constant, and Steve's got few enough of those.

When he climbs the stairs to the front door of his building, it's dark outside. When he goes inside, it's dark there, too. Through the gloom, a blue light flashes on his telephone. Steady like a pulse.

He turns on a lamp and checks his messages.

"—asshole, I thought you were staying for dinner, you are a terrible leader and you suck at team-building exercises and fostering good will. This is bad for family morale." Tony's voice is crystal-clear, and he seems to be settling in for a long rant. Steve half-listens as he pokes around his kitchen. It's almost like someone else is home with him, like he isn't alone on a Wednesday evening. Like there's almost more to his life than these blank walls.

"Really, what will the children think if their dad's never home, I can't raise Bruce all by myself and Natasha came in looking like something the NYPD found when they dredged Lake-whatever last year, and I just—"

Steve pauses. Natasha's not meant to be back for another day.

"—staying for science but not for dinner, who does that, it's rude and just, just irresponsible. Call me, Cap." This should be the end of the message, but it's not. There's a soft sound that Steve recognizes as Tony breathing through his nose, impatient and unhappy.

"Take your time if you _need_ to," he says flatly. "But call me, Cap. You've got to call me."

Steve's voicemail rolls over to the standard options, the automated voice enthusiastically and artificially polite. The contrast to Tony's rough tone is jarring.

Steve hesitates. Then he goes over to the machine and deletes the message.

And makes dinner. And sits quietly. And eventually goes to sleep.


	4. Part III: Freeway, Chapter Two

**The Stone Series: Part Three  
****Freeway  
****Chapter Two**

The city's heavy with fog today when Steve runs. In the oppressive gloom of early morning, streetlights like distant, rubbed-out stars, he's the only man on the planet. He can't see more than a dozen yards in any direction, buildings and cars and trash cans easing into and outta his field of vision like smoke. The small handful of people he encounters are pale and abstracted, ghosts in a world where all the edges have dropped away. They're not real. They hurry on without looking at him, and even after the sun starts to stretch and bleed over the horizon, nothing comes to life.

It brings Steve to the bottom of the ocean, depthless and timeless and alone. Full darkness beneath a distant, watery circle of light that does nothing to dispel the gloom. For a handful of terrible moments, he wonders if he ever left. If he's just been dreaming this whole time.

The thought stays with him longer than it should, heavier than he can bear. Overpowering, enough that he wonders how it can't be true.

Slick with sweat and hollow in the pit of his chest, he fumbles his way into his apartment. There's a jolt of adrenaline twisting anxiously up his spine. There's the unshakable feeling of a gaping hole at his back.

There's the distinct smell of french toast and maple syrup in the air around him.

Steve looks up sharply at the man in his kitchen.

"Helped myself," Barton says over his shoulder. "Hope you don't mind." He shoots a cursory grin at Steve and turns back to the skillet. He's picked out in silhouette from the lamp above the stove, and the compact bulk of his torso and bare arms are solid and real.

Steve rubs his palm over his face, wipes the sweat from his eyes. He can already taste cinnamon, and his stomach rolls over with sharp interest. "Depends. There any for me?"

"Naturally. Get cleaned up, Cap, I can smell you from here."

Steve laughs, short and relieved. All the darkness drains outta him, and here in this time and place—watching Barton cook is like watching him shoot: precise, efficient, cocky—he feels like he can breathe.

He doesn't know why the agent's here, but it's—unexpectedly nice. Coming home to someone. Sharing a meal. A kindness he never expected. He wonders how he'd've felt if he'd been running _to_ something, instead of away from ghosts. If that sticky black despair in his belly could've been banished sooner, could've never come at all.

After breakfast, Barton collects their plates. Waves Steve off when he tries to take over dishwashing.

"You cooked," Steve points out.

"In addition to breaking and entering," Barton reasons. His hands are quick and efficient, flashing under the water. He's quiet after that, his eyes on his work, and Steve leans back against the counter and kinda wants to ask about Natasha. If she's okay, if he's allowed to call to ask. If they're sorta friends now.

"So Professor X wants to meet with you again," Barton eventually volunteers, drying his hands. "He can't always make it into the city, guy's got a full schedule, but he says you're welcome at the Institute whenever you want."

"Decent of him," Steve says. Barton looks up.

"That's pretty ambiguous, Cap," he says, eyes keen. There are lines cut deep into his brow where they knit together. "But Fury says he'll cut your counseling sessions down to twice monthly if you don't mind making the drive."

Steve looks away, jaw firming. He wonders if it's common knowledge, how he's not—okay. That he's not handling everything as well as he should. He wonders who else knows, or if it's just SHIELD. He wonders if Tony knows.

"Steve," Barton says quietly.

Steve looks up. This close, he can pick out the faint stain of red across Barton's cheeks. There was probably a lot of sun in South America. He tries not to wonder how many people Barton killed.

"Is—how is Miss Romanov?" Steve asks.

"Banged up," he answers, his voice going soft and clipped. He's moving around the kitchen, putting things away. "A few new scars for the collection."

Steve clears his throat. "Scars?"

"She's like a roadmap, Cap, you should see her. It's nuts." Clint's got this half-smile playing on his lips, and Steve thinks, Huh.

Part of Steve unhappily tries to imagine the condition Natasha must be in, bloodied and damaged. Another part inadvertently pictures her naked. He flushes; Barton raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"So," he says, slipping his shoes back on. "I'm free all morning. Wanna go to the zoo?"

* * *

The zoo doesn't actually open 'til ten. They get there about eight, and Barton sneaks them in through an employee entrance.

Only Steve doesn't realize he's doing it at the time. Truth be told, he's kinda excited about seeing the tigers.

Steve also didn't realize Barton meant, specifically, a _petting zoo_.

"Hello, precious," Barton murmurs, perched on the first slat of a rickety wood fence. He's got the head of a donkey cradled in his hands. The sign says her name is Martha.

"Agent—," Steve begins, but Barton cuts him off.

"Tasha said you'd pull that crap. We have names, man. Use 'em." His face is open enough that his words don't sting. He has dimples. His fingers move in soothing circles around Martha's ears, and bent forward half-into her pen, he looks like a misbehaving kid. With very strong arms.

"Clint, then," Steve tries, and earns a clear look of approval. "So how'd you and—Natasha—meet?"

"Classified," Clint says. He hops down off the fence. "Mostly classified, anyway. She's allowed to talk about it; I'm not."

"Can you talk about," Steve pauses. He's not sure how to ask how SHIELD picks up a sniper who doesn't use a gun, puts him on an elite team to protect Earth from space aliens. "How you got into this line of work?"

"Oh, sure. When I was a kid I ran away and joined the circus."

There are goats. Baby goats with square pupils and tiny goat hooves. Steve's on his knees petting them, fascinated how they keep butting the tiny stumps of their horns into his palms. "The circus?"

"Yep." Clint's wandered over to the horse, Melvin. "Some people just aren't cut out for the regular song and dance of growing up, Cap. Especially if circumstances are such that," he trails off, seemingly distracted by Melvin whuffling into his shoulder.

Steve waits. One of the little goats nibbles on the knuckle of his thumb. It's black and brown with bits of dried alfalfa on its back. Steve is utterly charmed.

"Anyway, if you're willing and you're young, you can be made into pretty much anything. I eventually—outgrew the circus. Did a few things on my own. Got picked up by SHIELD along the way, and the rest is history."

"What was it like?" Steve asks, straightening. There's a twinge in his chest, looking at Clint and his careless affection toward the animals. It's not something Steve would've pegged. He feels it's somehow vital, though.

"Had its good parts," Clint says, implying there were maybe some awful parts. "I got to practice archery until I was better than anyone alive, so there's that."

He doesn't say it with ego, like Tony would've. It's just another fact about Clint, like the color of his eyes or the shape of his forearms. Steve isn't sure what to do with that kinda honesty, the kind that supersedes modesty.

"But I did learn a couple of things," Clint says after a while, "before I left." He wanders back over to Steve, brushing off his hands. "We had elephants, zebras, lions. Horses for the contortionist act, a couple of honest-to-god dancing bears." He smiles fondly. "Animals aren't like people, Steve. They aren't malicious. You treat them okay, they're always happy to see you."

There's a llama craning its head toward Clint, snuffling for food. Steve knows it's a llama 'cause that's what the sign says, under _Mildred_. Clint smiles and scratches her gently under the chin. "They don't take sides when everything goes to shit."

Steve nods, trying to follow, but all he can think about is a drawing of a trained monkey. Feeling trapped, on display. Ultimately useless.

"Nat used to take me to pet stores after missions that went south," he continues, eyes crinkled at the edges. He looks away from the llama, up at Steve. "To play with the puppies."

Steve watches, mouth dry. Thinks how Bucky used to drag him around town after his parents died, get him outside as often as he could. Not for the first time, he tries to reconcile how an assassin can be a decent sorta person.

Clint stretches his arms above his head, scanning the area. His mouth quirks. "The most important thing, though, living in a circus—" he looks over at Steve, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You throw a bunch of freak acts together, expect them to put on a show. What d'you get?"

"What?" Steve asks helplessly.

"A family," Clint grins. "Regardless of what comes after."

That's about when Security spot them.

* * *

Steve keeps to himself for the new few days. In his spare bedroom, over a fresh drop cloth, he sets up an easel and tentatively starts painting. He uses a lotta water at first, thin washes and small concentrations of pigment. Lets them dry, experiments with different levels of opacity and studies how the colors bleed together, or how they don't. It's relaxing, it doesn't have to mean anything, and it's almost pretty. It's a nice way to kill time.

Now that Steve only needs about four hours of sleep, he's hard-pressed to fill the silence.

He doesn't call Tony back, 'cause he doesn't know what to say. He does call Natasha, but her voicemail picks up. Disapprovingly, he wonders if she's already on another mission. If she's hurt somewhere, if she's still hurt from before.

Around lunchtime on Sunday, he calls Fury about Professor Xavier.

"You're penciled in for a week from tomorrow, seven a.m. sharp." He says after a few minutes. "He can manage the second and fourth Monday of every month, if you're available." As if Steve has anything else to do with his time other than wait around 'til someone needs him.

"Thank you, sir." Steve says, picking at a spot of red paint on his palm.

"How you holding up, Captain?" Fury says after a beat, and it's not that he sounds hesitant. Just that he probably feels obligated to ask, but is ultimately uninterested in the answer.

"Fine," Steve says, short and to the point 'cause he's not in the habit of wasting someone's time.

"Good, good. Seeing more of the city? Expanding your horizons?"

"...Sir?"

There's the sound of a phone ringing in the background, and what's probably Maria Hill's voice snapping a sharp command. "I've got to take this, Rogers. Keep me posted on your progress."

It's right around the time they hang up that Steve realizes: Natasha probably got Bruce to call him, to invite him over. Clint was probably under orders, too.

So he isn't surprised when, later that night, Tony knocks on his door.

Operation: Socialize Steve Rogers. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. If he wanted to make friends, he'd damn well go out and make them.

"You don't call, you don't write," Tony says as he shoves his way into Steve's apartment. "You don't tell funny anecdotes about that time you broke into a petting zoo with fucking Legolas—"

At Steve's blank, irritated look he pauses and rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine, with fucking _William Tell_, who then had to tranquilize three security guards—"

Steve'd felt bad about that.

"And you don't even invite _me_." Tony looks around at Steve's apartment, eyebrows raised. "This place is depressing. You should spend maybe zero percent of your time here whenever you can help it." He wanders into the living room, skating his fingertips over the coffee table, tapping the casing of the old radio in the corner. A well-dressed and complicated tornado of scrutiny who keeps _touching_ things.

"Can I help you, Tony?" Steve asks shortly, crossing his arms.

Tony leans down to study a silver picture frame that's probably older than Stark Industries. It's small and square, polished to a high gleam. Not a lick of tarnish anywhere on it. The matte window is a perfect circle, cleanly hiding edges worn ragged in the cradle of a pocket watch. Once upon a time.

"Yeah," he answers, distracted. "You can stop living here. You can live somewhere else instead. Oh, you have a peace lily." It's on the dining room table. He's looking at it speculatively, like a goddamn plant means anything at all in the world.

"There is nothing wrong with my apartment."

Tony looks at him blankly, eyebrows raised. "It killed my buzz just walking in here, Cap."

"Buzz," Steve starts, adamantly refusing to follow the tailored curve of Tony's slacks, the supple shape of his thighs. "Tony, have you been drinking?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? On a Sunday night?" He settles onto the couch, arms spread over the cushion tops. Tilts his head back, sags bonelessly like he's trying it on for size. "I feel like no one lives here. There's no mess at all. You don't even have a TV." It's like the guy doesn't even need to pause for breath, and Steve can feel offense roll over hot in his head, start to churn into true anger. "You should pack an overnight bag. Like right now. Come home with me before I kill myself."

It's not 'til he feels his nails digging into his palms that Steve realizes he's clenching his fists. "Get outta here, Tony," he bites out. He's done with this shit.

Tony looks up, lips in a fine line, eyes hard. "Oh, what, and now you're mad at me for no reason whatsoever."

"You barge in here," Steve snaps, "insult my home with every damn word comes outta your damn mouth. And you wonder why I'm mad?"

Tony stands up, looks conflicted and angry and confused. "I'll just," he starts, and Steve jerks his thumb toward the door.

"Please," Steve says. Like it's a command.

The color drains from Tony's face. Wordlessly, he goes.

* * *

Steve keeps to himself after that, spending long, solitary hours at the gym or working on his painting. On Wednesday, he goes to that same cafe Natasha introduced him to. He feels outta place without her company.

He thoroughly cleans the apartment, though there's not much needs doing. Steve's pretty regular with upkeep. He takes care of his things.

He spends some time on the internet looking at interior design websites. Just to see.

No one calls, no one drops by unexpectedly. It's almost a relief, except when Steve wonders, uneasily, how the others are doing. If everyone's okay.

He sleeps in short, dreamless bursts. Wakes up every morning feeling like he's missing something.

The next Monday, Steve leaves at five-thirty a.m. for Westchester. The interstate's pretty light on traffic, outbound, and his bike handles like a dream. The wind's cool on his face, slips through his hair like kind fingers. It's nothing like riding during the war. It's relaxing, refreshing. No detritus from bombs, no swathes of road fallen into disrepair. He doesn't have to focus on anything.

There's a place between the lightening sky and the clean blur of asphalt where he doesn't have to think about how Bruce is trapped with the other guy 'til he dies, how Bruce hates himself for it. How Steve hasn't heard anything about Thor's condition yet, if the guy's even okay. How Natasha might be injured and bleeding out someplace, how Clint is probably murdering someone from a distance in a faraway city. With the same hands that curled lovingly over the lonely heads of horses.

He pulls up to the mansion, parks his bike, and doesn't have to think about bullshit fights with Tony when all Steve wants is to get along, to stop wanting things he can't have. To strike a medium between being at Tony's throat and being at his feet. Maybe resist the urge to ruin everything by being in his arms.

End of the day, Steve's starting to not like himself much.

He meets with Charles in the study. Immediately, it's as though a shadow lifts from his mind.

But then he gets a good look at the man.

"Steven," Charles says lightly. "So nice to see you again."

Steve wants to say something in kind. Instead he blurts out, "You feeling okay, sir?"

Charles raises his eyebrows. He looks awful—rough, exhausted. Like he hasn't slept, like he's aged five years. His hands rest on his knees, loose and open, like he's willing himself to keep them from knotting together. After spending some time with Bruce, Steve recognizes this habit.

"Thank you for your concern," Charles says, hands folded on his big oaken desk. "But I assure you, I am fine."

Steve doesn't say anything, but he does look away. The room has huge windows opening to a view of lush green grass that stretches for miles. There are small, flowering trees just outside.

"How do you feel about gardening, Steven?"

Steve thinks about it. He wore durable jeans since he had the motorcycle out today, and there's a plain t-shirt on beneath his button-down.

"Let's find out," he says.

Two hours later, Steve decides he loves gardening.

The work isn't particularly difficult, but it's monotonous. Charles gives him an untilled patch of land and talks him through preparing the soil, what seeds to plant and where. Then there's fertilizer, and general instructions for pruning and weeding when the time comes. He gets into a rhythm, gets dirt under his nails and grass stains on his knees. Everything smells like earth.

Bucky's parents had a victory garden, but Steve's mother never did. It's good. Working with his hands is good.

By the time Steve realizes they haven't had a single conversation about the ice, or Being Captain America, or how lost he is in this big, new world, Charles is saying, "It was lovely of you to come, Steven. I hope to see you again in a couple of weeks."

Then Charles shakes his hand. On the ride home, Steve feels relaxed and accomplished. He feels useful, valued. The sun is warm on his head and the back of his neck, and he doesn't feel lonely at all.

* * *

When he gets home, he calls Tony. Figures it's probably time.

"Shit, shit, sorry, hang on a minute, Cap."

Steve tries not to get irritated all over again. There's some noise in the background, the heavy whirr and metallic thud of mechanized parts, and Tony saying, "Yeah, there. No, a little—_fuck_, Dummy, there is no _possible way_ you're mine, I blame poor parenting, JARVIS this is on you—"

Steve sighs and counts to five.

"—regret to inform you, sir, that Dummy's functional behavior protocols are the direct result of your fondness for grain alcohol," is the distant reply.

"Don't pull that substance-abuse crap on me, Jay, we've already been down that—"

"This a bad time?" Steve finally asks, and he twists his voice into something curt. Latches on to whatever he can to drown out the affection he feels, hot in his ribs, at the sound of Tony in the place he loves best. Steve's still supposed to be mad at him, 'cause he's pushy and rude and insulting. 'Cause you can't let people get away with any of those things or they'll never turn out decent.

It's always upside-down with this man, Steve thinks. How I feel, how he feels. How we don't fit together 'til we do.

"No no no," Tony assures. "Just had to take an active hand in a routine upgrade since my children are functionally retarded. Wanna go see _Wicked_ with me?"

"What," Steve begins, baffled.

"It happens with the kids when you drink too much," Tony explains. "Especially during the developmental stages, since—"

At a loss, Steve asks, "What's _Wicked_?"

There's a faint pause. Then Tony says, cautiously, "You, ah. You liked _Wizard of Oz_, right? It's like that. It's a musical."

Steve thinks about flying monkeys. Then he thinks about ruby slippers that can take you home, just 'cause you wish for it hard enough.

"Okay," he says.

"Good. Great!" Tony sounds relieved. There's a moment of silence, workshop background noise. Steve waits it out. Eventually Tony says, "Last week. It occurs to me that I may have gone about things the wrong way." He doesn't sound repentant, but there's a thread of anxiety in his voice. "So: would you like to come over and watch a movie with me and Bruce some time? Standing offer. Bruce likes to cook, so I can guarantee both dinner and breakfast. We can have a slumber party."

Steve washes the soil from his hands. He's holding the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, the way he's seen people do countless times. It takes a minute to get the hang of.

Then he thinks about what Tony's saying.

"Jesus christ," Steve mutters, blowing air outta his mouth in a long, low breath as understanding finally hits. "All that song and dance for—god_damn_. All you had to do was ask, Tony."

"That a yes?" His voice is hesitant. There's a faint tapping sound like nervous fingers on a countertop.

Helplessly, Steve thinks, Yes. What Steve says is, "I'll keep it in mind."

"Do that," Tony says earnestly. Tap, tap, tap. Clink, clink, clink. Steve wonders what he's even working on.

After another silence, Steve says, "All right, then. Goodbye."

"Wait, Steve," Tony says in a rush. "Are we okay? I really need to," he trails off. Clears his throat. "I just feel like it's been rough between us lately and. I'd really, really like it not to be, so if you could tell me what I did—I'm not the best at, at figuring that out—"

"For future reference," Steve replies, "telling me how awful my home is won't make me wanna visit yours. Opposite, actually."

Tony swallows. Steve can hear it. Thinks about the slow ride of his adam's apple, the stretch of his neck when his head's thrown back.

"Sorta makes you an asshole," is all he says.

"Noted," Tony replies tersely.

* * *

Three days later, Steve finds himself in Tony's living room in front of a huge television set. The movie they're supposed to be watching has to do with ghosts and vacuums, far as he can tell. But they're not really watching it.

What they're really doing is arguing.

"Do you have to be a hardass about _every goddamn thing_, Rogers?" Tony's not exactly shouting, but he's raised his voice by degrees.

"For chrissake, Stark, he's not an _animal_—"

"He's not in a _cage_," Tony hisses. He's got an ugly look in his eyes, one Steve recognizes: it means Tony's about to go for his throat. It means, Everything special about you came out of a bottle.

Except, for whatever reason, what Tony actually does is grab Steve's wrist, lean close like he's telling a secret. "Look, it's only a temporary solution. I know it's not ideal, but it's all we have right now."

From the couch, Bruce says, "I'm right here, guys." He sounds tired, if not especially annoyed.

The problem's that, when Steve got here, he found Bruce naked in the kitchen. Steve didn't take issue with the nudity, and he definitely doesn't take issue with Bruce. But he draws the line at keeping somebody doped up for convenience's sake.

"We're working on something else," Tony assures him, guiding him back to the loveseat by his elbow. "I promise we are." He leans down again and says, quieter, "No one should carry that much stress around. No one should be afraid in their own damn home." He turns his head, and his cheek brushes Steve's temple. "He can be himself like this. Okay?"

"Okay," Steve admits. He slowly lets go his outrage: Tony's right. Steve isn't happy about it, but Tony's probably right.

"Glad that's settled," Bruce snorts. "Can we get back to the part where I've never actually seen _Ghostbusters_?"

"Endeavoring to remedy, endeavoring to remedy," Tony laughs, a soft sharp sound. He restarts the movie.

Steve, as a rule, has trouble falling asleep. His body doesn't need much to start with, and even after a full, physically exhausting day, it's hard for him to find peace enough for rest. So he's not sure how it happens here, of all places.

But, next thing he knows, he's waking up to the sound of hushed voices.

"—said she'd be home in an hour or so, but she didn't mention Clint."

"They should've both been in Boston. It was a joint mission. Fury probably knows I hack their SHIELD files, but I can't see why he'd bother to plant false information."

There's a hand in Steve's hair, and someone sitting on the arm of the loveseat where Steve's been napping.

"Would she tell us," this is Bruce's voice, "if something happened to him?"

"I don't know," Tony says quietly. "Eventually. We might hear it from Fury first." Bruce is silent after that.

Steve doesn't wanna wake up, doesn't wanna know what they're talking about or if anyone's hurt. Tony's fingers move in soothing patterns through his hair, dip down over his neck, and for a moment Steve lets himself pretend.

Then he carefully sits up. Tony keeps his palm curled over Steve's shoulder, thumb resting against Steve's pulse. He says, "Rise and shine, Cap."

"How long was I out?" Steve asks, self-consciously straightening his t-shirt where it's rucked up around his waist. Tony watches with interest. In the low light of the living room, his eyes catch warm and gold.

"Half the movie," Bruce says around a yawn. "Maybe an extra fifteen minutes after the credits." He's leaning back into the couch, boneless and relaxed. His lashes are dark against his cheeks, and by the time they flutter open, Tony's hand has fallen away. Steve's suddenly colder for the loss of it.

He's about to say something like, Thanks for having me over. He's about to go home to his empty apartment, 'cause it's the right thing to do. 'Cause Steve is not a bad person, and if Tony can't keep his damn hands to himself, Steve's gotta know when to leave.

It's not any consolation, realizing Tony's as attracted to Steve's stupid body as Steve is to Tony. How Tony doesn't seem to care about who gets hurt, pursuing Steve at all.

So he means to leave. He really, truly does. But then his stomach growls, and instead he says, "Didn't someone promise me supper?"

Tony smiles, opens his mouth for some kinda snide reply that hopefully involves actual nourishment. But he doesn't get the chance to.

"If you wait around all day for _him_ to feed you," an entirely new voice interrupts, "I'm afraid you'll probably go hungry."

Steve cranes his head around as Tony slides off the arm of the loveseat. Then Tony's taking a gorgeous redhead in his arms, willowy and smartly dressed. Steve's chest aches. They cut a perfect form.

"Hi, Tony," she says, to her boyfriend that she _lives with_. She's got a smile that could stop traffic. Steve can't look away from them.

"You're home early," Tony says, hands on her small waist. He looks genuinely happy to see her, but it fades somewhat. "Does that, ah. Is that a no on the Detroit enterprise?"

"It's not a yes," she says, sympathetic but brusque.

Tony's face falls, but he gestures broadly over at Steve. "That's Captain America, by the way. In my living room."

"I can see that," Pepper says, eyes shining. "Did you know? The Incredible Hulk's on your couch."

"It appears to be so," Bruce murmurs distantly.

"I just attract these amazing and talented individuals," Tony preens. "They can't get enough of me, that's why everyone has to come live in my super tower."

"Mmhmm." Miss Potts appears well-practiced at humoring him. Then she looks at Steve. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers."

"Ma'am," he greets, standing outta old habit. All over again, that too-big feeling settles on his shoulders like a weight. She offers her hand, so he takes it. "Pleasure's all mine."

Her soft, small fingers. Her hair glittering in the light like a new penny. The faint hint of freckles beneath her flawless makeup, and her crisp white blouse. The narrow flare of her hips beneath a black skirt.

She's breathtaking.

"What were you doing in Detroit?" Steve asks, on the off-chance it'll distract him from the beautiful woman who's engaged to the man Steve's—to the man he—

"I'm thinking about buying it," Tony explains.

"What?" Steve sputters. "Buying—Tony, that's a _city_, that's—"

"It's a ghost town," Pepper says to Steve. "Buildings abandoned and left to rot, or warehouses that residents burn down for sport. It has the highest crime rate in the States." She looks apologetic. "There have been talks of rebuilding, but right now no one has the time or the money to take it on as a public service project."

Tony deflates. "You don't sound terribly optimistic."

"It was a nice thought, Tony," Pepper says, and Steve wonders if she notices how his jaw goes tight. "But you can't build a Stark Tower in Detroit without personally overseeing the development. The politicians are dead in the water, the police force is impossibly outnumbered, and you can't expect your employees to brave a warzone just to go to work."

"Iron Man—" Tony says, and something crumples in Pepper's face.

Steve sorta wishes he were anywhere else.

"Iron Man is an option," she admits steadily. "But Tony Stark is in New York building Avengers Tower." She touches Tony's hand. "On the bright side, since the trip was cut short, we'll be able to spend some time together before your conference in LA."

Steve thinks about Detroit. Fixing things that are intrinsically beyond all repair. He's Captain America, after all. He could—

"—work to do in the lab, but maybe we can go that restaurant you like in Manhattan," Tony pauses, uneasy. Pepper looks bleak.

Again, Steve thinks about going home. Thinks it could be a nice evening, getting some supper and googling Detroit. Maybe make a few phone calls in the morning. He wonders if it'd be impolite to sneak out the door while Pepper and Tony are talking unhappily at each other.

Then Bruce stretches and yawns mightily. He shambles over to the three of them.

"Hi, Bruce," Pepper says, her face softening. Then she looks a bit sly. "I see we've been partaking again."

Bruce scrubs a hand through his hair. "Hi, Pepper. Did you know? Incorporeal assimilation via suction is a fascinating field of study. I'm still trying to internalize the full spectrum of practical application."

"Indeed," Pepper says fondly. "To which blend were you subjected today?"

"My dear," Bruce murmurs patiently, "that is outside the realms of this conversation."

"But what is not outside the realms of this conversation," Tony says, "is dinner."

Pepper purses her lips and turns back to Tony. "So order take-out."

"You know I hate to interact with the little people," Tony chides.

"You know I just got off a plane from Detroit," Pepper says pointedly, "after three days of exhaustive meetings. Meetings where I had to explain, carefully and repeatedly, that you want buy a _city_."

"I thought I'd be able to get Bruce to cook." Tony admits. "He likes to."

"I'm quite content to pass the honor on to someone else tonight," Bruce mentions. "Also, you didn't actually order groceries."

Pepper sighs. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Miss Potts," JARVIS says promptly.

"Can you place an order with—well, whatever takeout we ordered last time," she starts, then shoots a contemplative glance at Steve. "Except twice as much."

"At once, Miss Potts," JARVIS says warmly. "And would you also like for me to place your weekly grocery order?"

"Please and thank you," she replies sweetly.

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Why does my AI like you better than me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Pepper touches her index finger to her cheek and looks heavenward. "Must be because I'm prettier than you are."

"I seem to have been programmed with a peculiar affinity for redheads," JARVIS supplies.

"Natasha's a redhead," Bruce points out.

"It is not quite the same," JARVIS says in a very dry way, "without the freckles."

Pepper blushes.

* * *

Food safely in transit, Tony spends the next thirty-five to forty minutes talking animatedly about hammers and shields. He's got his elbows on the kitchen table, his fingers pulling clean, perfect shapes outta the air and fitting them together. He uses the word _penetrate_ a lot, which gets kinda creative since Thor's hammer didn't actually break Steve's shield. Or crack it. Or really do much more than scuff the paint.

Eventually Bruce says, "Can it with the euphemisms, he doesn't get it," and looks apologetically at Steve.

"That's what makes it so _funny_." With a flick of his wrist, Tony makes the images pause their back-and-forth hammer-pounding-shield animation.

"Remember that time," Bruce says serenely, "when you tricked me into living with you? Specifically the part where you neglected to inform me of the full-time babysitting position I'd be obligated to take. The one where the baby is actually an adult billionaire."

"It doesn't even make sense," Steve mutters, forehead wrinkling. He studies the still shapes. "The hammer, yeah, maybe. But it's not like there's a hole in my shield."

Bruce and Tony go quiet and look at him. Bruce eventually takes pity. "It's not really about the imagery," he says. "'Banging' and 'pounding' are both slang for 'intercourse.' Also, Tony is woefully juvenile."

"What—your buzz wear off already, bubbletoes?" Tony asks lightly, scrolling through graphs and equations in the empty air.

"Nah, whatever you've done this time around is good," Bruce says, and Steve realizes they aren't talking about sex any more. "I'd say we can stick with it."

"Noted," Tony says, tucking his visual technology back into his tablet. Every single time, Steve thinks it looks like magic. "Still sorry about the other day."

"No harm, no foul," Bruce says, smiling crookedly.

Tony looks hesitantly at Steve.

"What?" Steve asks warily, slouching a bit in his chair.

"Are you still—?"

"Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Miss Romanov has returned. I would sincerely recommend greeting her with a first-aid kit." JARVIS says.

Steve's still thinking about that, about robots and sincerity, right up 'til he actually sees Natasha.

This is how she comes to them: in her ragged SHIELD blacks with messy, filthy hair. Mud on her hands and her scuffed face. A bloody lip and a cut above her brow.

She holds herself awkwardly like she's injured, and doesn't seem to've slept or bathed in days.

Tony's face is pale. "Natasha," he says, reaching for her, and she hisses when he touches her waist.

'Cause, while she's bleeding all over from smaller cuts, there's one particularly alarming patch of darkness high on her rib cage. She's pressing a rust-colored rag against it. Once, it may've been white. Tony looks utterly lost.

Bruce touches Tony's shoulder and offers Natasha his hand. She takes it. "Thor's back in town," she says, teeth tight together as Bruce pulls gently at the blood-soaked rag, tries to get a feel for the damage. "He brought Loki."

"What?" Steve's head snaps up. He's hung back during this, unsure what to do with his hands if someone's hurt, but always ready for a fight.

"Great, that's really phenomenal news and I can't wait to see those guys." Tony says, following Natasha as Bruce leads her to one of the master bathrooms. Steve trails behind, useless and worried. "I'm glad that Thor's recovered from his nasty scrape with Magneto and that he's bringing his special snowflake nutjob brother home with him. Now that's out of the way—can we get to the part where _what the hell happened to you_?"

"Classified," Natasha replies dryly, and Steve presses his lips into a thin line.

"How come you're not in a hospital?" He asks, trying to keep the anger outta his voice. He doesn't do the best job.

Expressionless, Natasha shrugs. Then she winces. "Fury wants me here for the interrogation."

"Who gives a shit what—" abruptly, Tony turns around. Steve looks past him and sees that Natasha's got her suit unzipped. Her bra's soaked with blood, which is probably why Bruce is taking it off.

Steve turns away, too, red in the face.

"—wait, what do you mean, interrogation?" Tony is apparently unconcerned with partial nudity as long as it's not happening in his line of sight. "Who's being interrogated? Are they being interrogated _here_?"

"Stark, you know I hate repeating myself." Her voice sounds thick; there's the sound of ripping fabric, and then a quiet sigh.

"You're fine, you're good, I'm going to get this out," Bruce murmurs quietly.

"Why does Fury want Loki at my house! He already broke my tower," Tony complains.

"Bruce is here," Steve points out. He wonders if being able to follow Fury's logic is something he oughta be concerned about.

"Thor's still on our side, right?" Tony asks wearily, leaning into Steve a bit. They're roughly shoulder-to-shoulder, and Tony's got his arms crossed, cupping his elbows tightly with white fingers.

"As far as we know," Natasha says. "Fury only told me to be here and report back to him. _Ow_."

"Sorry, sorry," Bruce says, and something soft drops into the garbage can.

"He wants you here bad enough that he didn't let you get patched up first," Steve says, jaw working. He's gonna have words with Fury. He's really starting to take issue with not knowing where his goddamn teammates are, if they're _safe_.

"I'm assuming this has to do with Asgardian justice," Bruce mentions. "They were gone almost two months. If Loki hasn't been executed yet, he likely isn't going to be."

Steve thinks about Loki, outta his mind and starving for power and recognition. Thinks about Loki somber and folded in on himself. Thinks about Thor, and how he'd do anything for his brother.

"Don't think that was ever really on the table," Steve says. He can see Tony looking at him outta the corner of his eye.

"Fury instructed Thor to escort Loki here. Fury instructed me to be present at the time he makes his case, and to report back to Fury my observations and any additional information I collect," Natasha tells them. "I'm officially informing Bruce of his position as backup. Stark, Cap, ask whatever questions you want—but under no circumstance are you to provoke either of them."

There's the sound of the sink. "That should do it. If you're going to shower, just be careful where I butterflied some of your cuts. You probably don't want me stitching you up," he adds ruefully.

"Natasha," Tony asks then. He is very still. "Where's Barton?"

"If you'll excuse me," she says, in cold voice that betrays nothing, "I'm going to take a shower."

* * *

"Natasha never mentions Coulson," Steve says. Bruce has gone to his room to put his supplies away, and Pepper's in her office. "Neither does Clint."

"Wasn't he their handler or something?" Tony asks, banging around in the kitchen. Opening drawers or looking in the fridge, fiddling with things on the counter. "He seemed pretty loyal to Fury. Right-hand man and all that. And after that heart to heart we got," Tony adds, sarcastic and bitter.

Steve touches his shoulder, gently tugs him away from appliances and tableware and stills his restless hands. "I don't know," he says. "I got the impression Natasha and Coulson knew each other pretty well. Enough to talk about their hobbies, anyway," he mutters, thinking about those damned Captain America cards. The ones he never signed, near-mint with slight foxing around the edges and smeared with blood.

"I think Barton was in New Mexico with him when Thor—happened," Tony says. "Did you know? He brought me in when they were dealing with General Ross." He scratches his nose. "Even paid my exorbitant consulting fee."

Steve looks up from where Tony's drumming his fingers against his thigh. "That the guy who worked with Bruce? Before?"

"Yeah," Tony says. "I guess he has another monster, real piece of work. Not at all nice like ours." He pauses. "Fury had orders to get him on the team instead of the Hulk. So Coulson sent me to royally piss off General Douchebag, that way Fury wouldn't be disobeying a direct order when Ross inevitably refused."

Steve doesn't say anything. Eventually Tony asks, voice steady and carefully opaque, "If you knew someone was doing something stupid, and someone else ended up getting hurt. Was it your fault? For not doing more to stop them at the time?"

Tread carefully, Rogers, Steve thinks. He's not sure what Tony's actually talking about here. At length he says, "I think people make their own decisions, Tony."

"The government's been fucking with that serum of yours for decades," he sighs. "It doesn't _work_. They keep fucking with it and it keeps not working." He shifts slightly, and Steve suddenly realizes how close they are, alone and crowded together against a corner cabinet. "You're the only one who made it, Steve."

"I'm just," Steve says, taking a half-step back, and tries to find something, anything to say to pull himself outta this mess. Whatever else Tony is, he's got a streak of guilt in him a mile long. He'd have to, to put a nuke through a portal and come out the other end of space. To wear a suit of armor to save people instead of collecting a paycheck to kill them.

Steve knows about guilt. He wants to take Tony's palms and kiss them. Slide his hands over that tight body, work out the tension until he's loose and sweet and warm beneath Steve's hands.

The doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Steve says, disappointed and relieved and desperately lonely. "Probably supper."

It's not supper. It's Thor and Loki.


	5. Part III: Freeway, Chapter Three

**The Stone Series: Part Three  
****Freeway  
****Chapter Three**

  
The overcast daylight filters in around them, catching on the deep, bold colors of their clothing. Thor's armor gleams bright and pristine, as sharp as a bit of white paint picking out the highlights in a storm-gray sea. Steve's glad to see him whole.

Face pale against the glossy black of his hair, Loki's not half the hungry shadow he was last time Steve saw him.

"Well," Tony says, a reassuring presence at Steve's back. His eyes are unreadable as he takes them in. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

They gather in the dining room. Tony fidgets restlessly in his chair, slouching and taking up as much space as he possibly can. He's watching Loki carefully from under his eyelashes. When Steve sees the Iron Man bracelets, his fingers itch for his shield.

Loki's hunched forward with his hands flat in front of him, and Thor keeps glancing at him edgewise. Like he's maybe afraid his brother'll disappear. His body language is almost the full opposite of Tony's, tight and restricted, too big for the space he's been given. It's something Steve can empathize with.

When Natasha drifts in, wordless and soundless, Steve only notices 'cause Loki looks up. Her hair's wet, brushed back from her carefully neutral face. The fluffy yellow robe she's wearing doesn't do a damn thing to lessen her air of menace.

"Good to see everybody," Tony mentions lightly, careless and irreverent of the tension in the room. But it seems to break the ice some.

"My heart is glad that you are well," Thor says earnestly, learning forward. "You fought valiantly against the mind-forger."

By the time Steve's internal dialogue catches up, Tony's saying, "Same here, big guy. We were pretty worried for a minute there."

"It was merely a flesh wound," Thor scoffs, easy and proud. "We are well-constructed on Asgard." But Steve notices the tightness around Loki's eyes, the way they flash over Thor's chest and abdomen. Like he remembers seeing his brother in pieces. Like it meant something to him.

Something deep and inky and dark curls inside of Steve, spreads and stains everything it touches. He carefully turns his mind from the ghost remnants of Bucky falling to his death, from the last time he saw Howard's face. He tucks away Peggy's voice and the sharp static of the radio cutting out, even though it never really leaves him.

Tony's peeking surreptitiously into the hall, and Steve wonders where Bruce is. Then he realizes Tony's probably worried most about Pepper walking in on a volatile situation. He's pretty sure she's still upstairs in her office, though: a princess in a tower, surrounded by knights but inches from the dragon.

Steve feels a pang and leans slightly away from Tony, gets some space to himself. It doesn't help. Nothing helps.

"Right, well," Tony says, sitting up just a bit straighter. "I can see that. In fact, one might make the observation that Loki doesn't appear to have been punished at all." His voice is totally colorless, but the way the fingers of his left hand skim over the bracelet on his right wrist doesn't escape Steve.

"He was imprisoned for long weeks while our father deliberated on what was to be done," Thor begins solemnly. Then he explains Odin's express commands, and Tony goes tense at Steve's side

Natasha stays deathly quiet, her arms crossed over her narrow ribs.

The way Thor's sitting—well. Steve knows about shields. He knows the exact curve of Thor's spine, how you can only protect something the best way you know. Steve thinks, What choice do we have?

"So let me get this straight," someone says, and Natasha jerks suddenly toward the doorway. Something hot and angry flashes in her eyes as Clint steps outta the hall.

"I left you in _medical restraints_," she hisses. Clint ignores her. He's not roughed up like she was earlier, and he's not wearing his SHIELD blacks. But there's a gauze pad on his left eye, white bandages wrapped around his head. Not a hint of tenderness in the steely lines of his hands. Steve wonders where he puts it, his humanity. If it's a thing he's learned to turn off.

"Loki's punishment for his crimes," Clint says steadily, "is to help you help us protect Earth?"

"I will defend your planet to my final breath," Thor says soberly. "Loki has many trespasses for which to answer, but he is possessed also of great power and high cunning. The lives he may yet save—"

"Don't mean a damn thing against what he's done." Clint cuts a silhouette Steve doesn't recognize, the edges blocky and hard and cast all wrong. Complicated and dangerous. Incongruously, Natasha's face has gone thoughtful.

Thor looks desperately unhappy, but Loki's voice is soft. "No. But it does not have to."

All eyes fix on him.

"I am not here for atonement, Agent Barton. That is not a thing I could hope to achieve in this world." He looks up from the table, meets Clint's visible eye. "But is it not more favorable that a life be spared, even by the workings of my own hand, if the alternative is another life lost?"

"Unless you decide to go on a killing spree. Again." Natasha's voice is chilly and measured. "I don't know how we could possibly trust you, but I can accept your argument in theory. I would certainly prefer to fight beside you, rather than against you."

Clint looks at her, stunned, but Thor says hastily, "I will take full responsibility for his future actions."

"And if it means putting him down?" Clint asks, taut as a strung arrow. Hundreds of pounds of pressure on one thin line. Steve can't begin to fathom how it must be, facing someone after he's—rummaged around in your mind. Picked and chosen and rearranged, defiled every special piece of you.

Clint doesn't even blink.

"It will not come to that," Thor says heavily, face clouding. With a faint, sad heat in his chest, Steve wonders if Thor's ever given up on anyone in his whole life. If it's something he's capable of: choosing not to forgive.

"But _if it did_," Natasha presses, and Thor stares at them helplessly.

"Yes," Loki answers. He doesn't look at his brother. "If it came to that, Thor would—as you say—put me down."

Tony's been listening intently, oddly quiet, and Steve's eyes catch on the edges of his elbows, the curl of his strong, calloused hands. The faint blue glow beneath his gray t-shirt, a constant reminder of his frailty and his strength.

"Speaking of trust issues," Tony volunteers cheerfully, "What exactly has changed here?" He's finally got his body language reined in, solid and unmoving. The sudden weight of his eyes sets off something deep in Steve's gut, even though it's not directed at him.

"Odin-Allfather—," Thor starts again, but Tony shakes his head.

"I'm picking up what you're putting down," Tony says evenly. "You babysit Loki here on Earth, Odin doesn't have to cut his head off back in Asgard. Right. I get it." He pauses briefly. "But Natasha's entirely correct. What's stopping him from slitting our throats while we sleep?"

Clint's come up behind Natasha. He doesn't touch her chair or her shoulder, but he stands very close to her. She doesn't lean into him, but she doesn't lean away.

Steve clears his throat. "You got anything to say for yourself, Loki, now's the time."

Loki glances sideways at Thor, a quick cut of his eyes, there and back. At length he says, "I will not apologize. It would be worth less than nothing to all of you, were I to do so. Suffice to say, I make a terrible enemy." He looks down at the table, pinched and miserable. Honest: "It would not be impossible for you to defeat me a second time. Nor worth your trouble, not when I could be—of use to you. My considerable power to do with as you will."

"Those are all fine, reasonable, _conditional_ things," Tony says. "Now tell me why I should risk my life, Loki." He learns forward on his elbows, eyes hard. "We've established this isn't about redemption, or the people you've killed, or the damage you've caused. You don't regret killing Agent Coulson."

When Tony's eyes go rough and brittle and sharp, Steve touches his knee under the table. It eases the harsh strokes of tension composing the shape of his body.

"Your Agent Coulson aimed a very large weapon at me," Loki says coldly.

"It was battle," Thor adds unhappily, "not murder." The sorrow is plain on his broad, sincere face. But there's trepidation too, as if he's being tricked into telling lies on his brother's behalf. Probably happened a lot when they were kids.

Natasha's hands are white where they curl around the table's edge. "He was one of ours," Clint says.

"I am well aware," Loki studies him, brow furrowing. "Agent Barton, what has happened to render you half-blind?"

"Shut _up_," Clint says, slapping a hand down on the table. He's gotta reach past Natasha to do it, and she doesn't even flinch. Steve does, though.

"Barton," Tony says sharply. It's a question and a demand. Clint grimaces.

"It's only the one eye," he admits. "It's not an issue."

"You are no longer a perfect shot," Loki continues softly. "You have lost the most valuable part of yourself." He doesn't sound cruel. He sounds curious, which is almost worse.

"_Loki_," Thor hisses as Clint tightens his hand into a fist, "I do not believe it wise to—"

Steve cuts in. "You're not the kinda guy to do anything without thinking five moves ahead. So you may as well show your cards."

Loki looks at him, and Steve looks back. There's no trace of the power-hungry maniac from before. There's not even the lost, listless shell he'd shared meals with on the helicarrier. When he promised Thor he'd take care of his brother.

Right now there's only intellect, aimless and withdrawn. Without passion or direction.

Loki's face creases with displeasure. "I am tired of fighting Thor," he finally murmurs. "Thor fights for you. I would rather—fight beside him. Wherever he chooses go to. Whatever cause he might support." He casts his eyes skyward. "I find I no longer have the stomach for this—this game of _chase_, for hunting each other through all the realms. I would rather have done. I would rather remain by his side."

Thor goes utterly still.

Quietly, Steve thinks: I know that want. To lay down arms, to have done. To remain by someone's side instead of at their throat. At their feet.

"I think I'm okay with that," Tony says slowly. Steve can't read his expression or his voice. "Even after he threw me out a window—my _own_ window—I'm still okay with that."

"And your eye, Barton," Loki adds gently. "I mean to say—as I know you," There are worlds of meaning in that simple word: know. "So can I repair you."

* * *

Maybe you're punished for the bad you do, Steve thinks. Maybe you're rewarded for the good.

Maybe you can learn to do better, next time around.

* * *

'Cause he's thinking about it—the super-charged green smell of marijuana, a pair of glasses flickering in watery television light—Steve hunts down Bruce.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he says uneasily as Bruce sits up. The hair on his chest seems darker and coarser in the dim room. It makes Steve feel kinda bare beneath his clothes.

"It's fine," Bruce says sleepily. "Did I miss anything?"

Steve passes him two styrofoam containers and tells him.

"Hmm," Bruce says around mouthfuls. Then he asks, "JARVIS? Where's Tony right now?"

"In the master bedroom with Miss Potts," JARVIS replies readily, and Steve's stomach drops, "discussing travel arrangements."

"Where's he sending her?" Bruce asks lightly.

"Malibu for the time being, Doctor Banner."

Bruce picks apart a bread roll. "She'll be safe enough there."

"Indeed," JARVIS says.

"He's sending Pepper away?" Steve asks, heart stuttering in his chest.

"He sends her away twice a week," Bruce replies. "Well, she sends herself. One of Stark Industries' major branches is out of the Malibu area. It makes sense for her to stay put for awhile, just until we're all reasonably sure Loki's a non-threat."

"Won't that be," Steve fishes for what he's trying to say. "Hard for them?"

"Not any harder than usual." Bruce slides outta bed unselfconsciously, pulls on a pair of trousers and a black t-shirt. If Steve looks close, he can pick out Hawkeye's emblem in dark, washed-out purple. "They're pretty busy people."

"Oh," Steve says.

"Tony's not," Bruce starts. He pauses as he gathers up the empty containers. "Tony doesn't always think about her. He tries to. He loves her. But there's a lot going on in his head." He follows Steve outta his bedroom and closes the door behind them.

"Pepper's a sure thing," he explains. "She's safe, she's devoted to Tony, she runs his company. There's nothing to fix, so Tony isn't preoccupied with her. I'm not excusing him," he adds firmly. "It's just how he operates. So when he's working in his lab, he's not thinking about her. When he's with me, he's preoccupied with me." Bruce looks kinda unhappy and kinda fond. Maybe wistful. Steve feels like maybe Bruce is a sure thing, too. "They've never let me feel like a third wheel. Not once. But I do try to make myself scarce sometimes." He chews his lip. "Except..."

"Except?" Steve feels a flicker of guilt at his own preoccupation.

"When it isn't me, it's Clint or Natasha. Whoever's out on a mission. Sometimes it's both of them, but there's less of that now." He pauses. "He isn't exactly impressed with how Doctor Foster handles a crisis. But he did make an effort to keep tabs on Thor."

Steve wonders why Jane didn't bother with a phone call, then, if that's the case. Then he wonders if she even knows Thor's here.

When they get to the stairs, Bruce ushers Steve down first. "He worries about you, too, Steve." Steve cranes his head back sharply, looks up over his shoulder. Bruce is just a few steps above. "He thinks you spend too much time alone."

"Fury thinks that," Steve says, turning away and getting a grip on the railing. He can't keep the bitterness outta his voice.

Bruce touches his shoulder lightly. "We all think that." He lets his hand fall. "Anyway, my point is—getting Pepper somewhere else would have been my first priority. So I'm glad it was his. I'm glad he was thinking about her."

The main floor opens up, bright and inviting. For the first time, Steve realizes all the lights are off upstairs. He and Bruce've been talking in the dark for the last half hour, and Steve didn't even notice. He wonders if Bruce did.

* * *

Tony's still upstairs with Pepper. Bruce is in the kitchen picking over the rest of the leftovers, and Thor and Loki retired to one of the spare rooms right after supper.

What Steve means to do is go out into the night air, breathe deep, and ride his bike home. Take some time to himself, get a plan of action straightened out in his head regarding wayward Asgardian princes.

What he doesn't mean to do is eavesdrop.

"Natasha, the guy was _crawling around in my head_. How can you even _think_—"

"It's no different than what I would have done. What I _have_ done," Natasha corrects quietly.

"There are _oceans_ of difference. There are whole _solar systems_ of difference. The guy killed Coulson, for god's sake."

"I would have killed Coulson," she says without inflection, "in another life."

"This isn't about you," Clint says roughly.

From just outside the den, a few short yards away from the front door and freedom, Steve can't see them. He doesn't know what they're doing in the silence, and he can't make himself move.

"If it's about you," she says at last, voice gentle as Steve's ever heard it, "it's about me."

"Then how can you be okay with this?" Clint asks wretchedly.

Natasha takes a breath. "If Loki can't wipe out the red on his ledger," she asks, "then what am _I_ doing here?"

"Nat," Clint says, "Don't."

Someone touches Steve's elbow. It's Tony. Looks like he's been here for a while.

Steve's shame must show on his face, but Tony doesn't say a word. Just leads Steve out the back door by his wrist.

* * *

"That's on them," Tony says, voice low and kinda worn. "I can't pretend to understand their particular mechanics, so. I try not to interfere."

"Right," Steve says. He carefully ignores the bit of oil on Tony's mouth.

They're out by Steve's motorcycle. It's almost full dark now, the driveway illuminated by a single porch light. Seems an awfully long way to the street.

"I'm taking Pepper to the airport when she's done packing," Tony ventures. "If you want to—you know," he glances at Steve with a crooked twist to his lips. "Just. You can stay over." He clears his throat. "You _should_ stay over. Here. Tonight. Considering present circumstances"

"If it's all the same, I'm just gonna head home."

Tony purses his lips. Eventually he hazards, "If you're mad about the pot." It sounds like a bad word, way he says it.

"It's not that," Steve assures him. It's even true, 'cause it _did _make Bruce relax a little. Steve figures that's worth a couple naps, maybe. "Just a different way of handling things than I'm used to." Then, 'cause he can't fucking help it, he reaches over and smooths his thumb over Tony's lower lip. Tries not to lose himself as those eyes go dark, as Tony moves into him with his whole goddamn body.

But Steve lets his hand fall, steps away. Wipes the tiny smear of oil off on his pants, glances meaningfully at his bike. "Well. Let me know if there's trouble."

"Look," Tony snaps, "I don't know if you've noticed? But I'm getting some pretty fucked up signals here, Cap. So I'd appreciate a conversation about this." He clears his throat. "Us."

"There's nothing to talk about," Steve tells him. He hasn't forgotten. It was over lunch at an outdoor cafe, and it was sunny, and Steve had said it wouldn't an issue. Except it's gonna be if Tony keeps bringing it up, jesus christ.

"You go right on telling yourself that," Tony says. "But it'll to be pretty hard to avoid this when everyone's living together, so I'd suggest you get the fuck over yourself, Rogers. The Tower's almost—"

Steve goes still. "Living together?" He interrupts. "You and Bruce and Pepper? And Thor and Loki?"

"And Clint," Tony says firmly, "and Natasha." He looks impatient, but he also looks wary. It's incomprehensible.

Probably 'cause he spends all his time with robots, Steve thinks wildly. He's got no idea how to talk to real people.

But then Tony's eyes lighten with understanding. "And you, Cap," he clarifies quietly.

"What?" Steve asks. Tony's so close, the smell of him twisting together with the memory what comes next. It almost overtakes him.

"Top ten floors, Avengers-land. Also Hulk-proof. Mostly."

"Tony," Steve says desperately, "I—,"

"Not to mention a fantastic gym. State-of-the-art. Really, Steve, you'll love it, lots of things for you to try and break."

"I have an apartment," he tries.

"Yeah, but it's terrible and I hate it," Tony insists. He's backed Steve up against his motorcycle at some point. Trapped him in the hot cage of his arms. "I think it's something we all need. Living together. You're—"

"Christ, could you _back the hell off_," Steve snarls. "What, you gonna just _move me in_ next to your—next to _Pepper_?"

He lets go of Steve. He backs the hell off.

"Look," Tony says, impatient but determined. He takes a breath. "So Bruce, right? Bruce who turns into a monster and sometimes kills people on accident? We keep him close, since that's best for everybody. Non-negotiable."

Steve opens his mouth to say something, 'cause this is completely outta the blue. He's getting conversational vertigo.

"No, _listen_," Tony says. "It's also best for Bruce, because he needs to be reminded that he's a fucking _human being_. I can't have him _wishing he were dead_, I can't fucking handle it." His voice frays around the edges. "So we can't ever let him forget he has people now. Durable, understanding people."

"Tony—"

"Shut up. He has me and he has Pepper, and I hope to hell he has you. Bruce is a fucking suicide, Steve."

There's something on Tony's face that Steve's never seen before, something kinda like quiet fear and quiet fury, kinda like grief. It's not the closed-and-boarded no-man's-land like when Coulson died. This is mourning for the living.

Tony says, "He pulled the fucking trigger."

Says, "It just didn't take."

Steve's caught off-guard, sometimes, how Tony can be such a damn saint it blindsides you. He's usually so obnoxious, outright dismissive of anyone who can't keep his attention. But then you turn around and find him sorting out something like this.

"If Clint and Natasha weren't staying here, they'd be kept like goddamn hamsters in little boxes at SHIELD HQ. They'd be living out of motels and—and fucking helicarriers." He frowns, the lines standing out around his mouth. He looks so tired. "And it's not like Thor has anywhere else to go, especially if he's hauling his crazy brother around. I don't think Jane could comfortably accommodate two Norse gods." Tony smiles humorlessly. "I'd sooner move her here with us, wouldn't be too terrible having another scientist in the lab, but her research is in New Mexico anyway and—"

"What if we can't make it work?" Steve sounds loud to his own ears. Only way to get a word in edgewise, though. "If this destroys the little bit of teamwork we've managed to scrape together? People need room to breathe, Tony."

What's living with you gonna do to me, Steve thinks. I can't even deal with you now.

"There will be so much space," Tony says hastily. "Floors and floors of space. Huge apartments just full of space. Private bathrooms, all with lots and lots of space." He licks his lips. "The kitchen is communal but you can always order in if you feel like a hermit, and did I mention the _enormous _and _catastrophically high-tech_ health and wellness facility? It's seriously going to be the best gym on the planet."

Steve thinks about sitting alone for hours in his small bedroom, lost. Steady, unabating depression closing in around him like an isolation chamber.

When you feel like that, you don't _wanna_ be around other people.

Steve thinks about Bruce, sleepy and brilliant. Keeping a careful eye on his made family. Steve's not a Hulk, he's just a super-soldier. No one's adopted him. Something like putting a bullet in his mouth would probably take.

"So it's not just about you," Tony says, bringing Steve back to the present, to this conversation that makes his lungs burn and his stomach flip. "I know it's difficult here. Different. I know your world's—changed a lot." He glances up, and Steve feels pinned beneath that heavy gaze. Suspended.

It might not be so bad. And—well, durable workout equipment's not something to spit at.

"Okay," Steve allows, 'cause it's as good a way as any to bow outta this conversation. He throws a leg over his motorcycle and fishes around for his helmet. Tony picks it up off the grass, but he doesn't hand it over. Droplets of water from the damp lawn have pebbled over the surface, glinting in the mansion's soft light.

"Wait. There are other things on the table here, Steve."

"We just talked about moving in together." Steve's exhausted. It settles heavily on his shoulders, cuts in around his eyes. "Anything else can wait 'til tomorrow." Steve revs the engine. The sound is absolutely blissful.

"Look," Tony says seriously, "I'm not gonna leave you alone here, okay? You most of all."

"You don't—," Steve says, but then his helmet's clattering to the pavement and the engine's sputtering out. Tony's got a hand hooked around the back of his neck.

He tastes like pizza and olives and oregano. He tastes like scotch, which means it wasn't a glass of soda he'd been drinking at supper. He tastes warm and insistent.

All the fight goes outta Steve. He wants to follow Tony back inside, go to bed with him. Wants it to be okay, but wants to have him even though it's not.

Eventually, Tony picks up the helmet and presses it back into Steve's hands. He's flushed and half-shy. Looks good on him.

"Call me," he says firmly, and lets Steve go.

* * *

But Steve wants no part of this damn charade. There's nothing to talk about, 'cause it's already so clear: Tony's got Pepper, and he wants Steve, too. So the only thing to say is Tony's just not a very good person. Steve doesn't wanna have that conversation.

* * *

The next day, Loki's hurling vicious little bursts of lightning that melt every chunk of metal they come into contact with. He's got his teeth bared, his hands twisting violently, his eyes promising vile, ugly things. So he's more or less settling in.

Iron Man's bursting up through the air in a bright streak before Steve can stop him, attacking from a distance with small clusters of missiles. To his right, Thor's slamming his hammer into the areas of Magento's scrapped-together shields that Loki's weakened. Clint stakes out a clear shot with two sharp, whole eyes, but the arrows keep getting pulled apart before ever reaching their target.

The problem's that Magneto keeps tearing up more bits of the city as he goes, breaking buildings down to their base parts. Steve's sick with worry 'cause _Iron Man shouldn't be here_, and Loki's doing just as much damage to the Lower East Side as their enemy.

"You need to pull back," Bruce says over the comm. He's a mile out in the jet as backup, just in case they can't reign Loki in. Far as Steve knows, Widow's still piloting. "You have to stop him or get him out of the city proper. You've already levelled two buildings, someone's going to get hurt."

"Candycane," Iron Man growls in Steve's ear, "Cherry pie. Sugar-bottom. This is a bit more difficult than it looks from the peanut gallery."

"Said no scientist ever," Bruce shoots back.

"Goddamn it," Tony says. But he's clever, so he figures something out pretty fast.

It only takes the one shot. Clint refuses to be called 'Pebbles'.

"I'm fine with Goliath," he compromises.

"That metaphor doesn't even make sense!" Tony complains.

"But it sounds better. Maybe I turn other people _in_to Goliath."

"Shut up, Barton."

* * *

Steve catches Fury before the debrief. "Sir. Why was Magneto attacking the city?"

"Does every lunatic in a cape need a reason to give me a headache?" Fury stalks over to the rest of the team, hands behind his back.

"His vitals are fine, he's just unconscious," Bruce says, straightening. Natasha, who's been hovering close behind him since they landed, falls back a step or two. With JARVIS doing a full scan of Magneto's body, they're able to get all the metal off him.

"Are we handing him over to SHIELD," Steve asks anyone, "or are we waiting 'til he wakes up so we can question him?"

Fury looks hard at Steve. "SHIELD can handle routine questioning, Rogers."

"Make sure you ask what he's got his people doing every time he's out here playing kick-the-can with us." 'Cause that's gotta be the case, if Magneto's so high-profile. Taking on the Avengers alone is just as good as serving himself up on a platter.

Iron Man looks up sharply and swears. Then he turns away from them, which usually means he's barking commands at JARVIS.

"We could see if Professor X can shed some light," Clint says. He's still playing with his handful of rough cement stones. The sling Loki fashioned from someone's shower curtain hangs from his belt.

"They aren't in each other's pockets," Fury says angrily, scrubbing his palm back over his scalp. He's surveying the damage. Place looks like a warzone, and Steve's seen enough of those to know.

"It's political," Tony says a moment later, turning back to the group. "There have been attacks on organizations with known anti-mutant sentiment. They just weren't on the books as hate crimes." He pauses. "Or attacks. Only one case was flagged as possible arson, but the rest were chalked up to business-as-usual. I just love this city," Tony sighs. "Our police force hasn't grown lazy or dependant at all, falling for _hella obvious misdirection_ while Magneto's other mutants pick off corporate assholes."

Steve ignores the sarcasm and asks, "Anti-mutant sentiment?"

"It's like racism," Tony explains, "except the people you provoke and belittle and protest against have a vast array of powers, and many of them aren't very forgiving."

Uneasily, Steve thinks about considerate telepaths.

"It's a known issue," Fury says. "There are people in high places who lobby for anti-mutant legislation. We do what we can to put pressure on them politically."

"Why does this man yet live?" Loki asks. "Is it not in our interest to kill him?"

"Actually," Bruce sighs, "it really isn't. The mutant situation is complicated. On one hand, no, it isn't okay to pass laws that would make the use of mutant abilities illegal—"

"Especially since some of those abilities," Natasha elaborates, "are as automatic as breathing."

"—but militant sects, like Magneto's, aren't doing their cause any favors. He's essentially a domestic terrorist."

Fury goes to unload something from a military SUV. It glitters painfully in the sunlight, so much clearer and cleaner and more colorless than ice. It looks like a glass coffin.

Steve turns away, looks at anything else. He catches sight of Loki, whose eyes are half-closed in concentration.

"Captain," Loki says quietly, snapping his gaze over Steve's. "The director is willfully misleading you."

"What?" Steve asks, voice low. He starts to turn, but Loki strides forward and catches his wrist. Tony drops outta his conversation with Bruce. This, more than anything, calls the attention of the rest of the group. "You saying he's lying?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Tony says, come up close on Steve's left.

"Not directly," Loki clarifies. "But he withholds much. Of this I am certain."

Clint shoots a quick look at Natasha. The filtered sunlight of the overcast day glows bluer in one eye than the other. "It's pretty standard for SHIELD to skimp on mission intel. We get enough to accomplish mission objectives, further details as needed."

"Yeah," Iron Man cuts in, "but 'further details' sometimes includes 'building weapons' and 'bombing New York'. One heroic jaunt to the other side of the galaxy was more than enough for this space cowboy."

Natasha locks eyes with Steve, then Bruce. Eventually she asks Loki, "Do you have the ability to find out?"

Clint shoots Natasha an unreadable look, mouth tight. Bruce looks small and strained next to Thor's wary bulk.

"I am afraid you will have to specify, Agent Romanoff," is Loki's blank reply. His eyes are fixed on Fury's distant back as the man gestures impatiently at SHIELD personnel. "Do you ask me to simply pluck secrets from his mind like so many jewels? Do you ask me to enslave him fully, as I did your companions?"

"Jesus," Clint growls harshly, but Natasha tilts her head and asks, "Can you?"

Loki hesitates.

"It's a simple question," Iron Man points out. He probably means to sound encouraging.

Loki explains, "During the Chitauri invasion, I used many abilities which were not my own." His lips go thin and white. "Some small traces remain."

"Brother," Thor says gently, "if you were to recover the truth, it would greatly assist us."

Loki glances at his palms, then at the sky. His face is still, but his hands are tight and anxious. At length he says, "So be it. If you will excuse me."

He withdraws, but not outta sight. Closes his eyes, tilts back his head.

And—Steve'll never do it justice, telling the story later. People didn't _flicker_ in the forties. But something happens where there's less of Loki, somehow. Where he fades, where color leaches from his face and his hair and his clothing in strange pulses. For a moment, Steve swears he can see right through his body to the rubble just beyond.

Then, all at once, he's back. Ashen, with heavy bruises beneath his eyes. Thor rushes over to him anxiously.

"Huh," Tony murmurs. "Not an afternoon kinda guy? Looks like he needs a nap. _I _could use a nap. I would actually, right this moment, love nothing so much as—"

"Tony," Steve says under his breath, quieting him. Loki is waving his brother away, distracted. Thor's fidgeting, sharp, worried eyes seeking Loki's in vain. Loki simply stares straight ahead.

"Your confrontations with this Magneto have been orchestrated," he says firmly as they approach. "Publicly, you are on display battling a known terrorist. They are making a show of you." He slowly rotates one wrist, picks at a scab near his thumb. "Privately, SHIELD is sanctioning the execution of individuals who have the resources to hinder this—mutant equality movement." He pauses thoughtfully. "It is not a poorly conceived plan."

"Is is cowardly," Thor huffs, arms crossed. "Base trickery. They must be confronted in the open field. They must be shown the error of their ways before the eyes of the people."

"It is diplomacy," Loki corrects, slanting a green glare at his brother. There's no heat to it, though. Just exhaustion. "Extricating the harmful elements so the whole might flourish." He purses his lips. "Yet another reason among dozens why the throne should pass to me."

"A kingdom cannot be ruled by lies, brother. Odin—"

"Is as tricky as they come," Loki sighs.

"Right, awesome, some god says it's okay for our government to murder private citizens for the greater good." Iron Man rounds on Clint and Natasha. "_Did you know about this_?"

There's a muscle twitching in Bruce's jaw, a steady flash. Steve can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. "Doctor Banner," he says quietly. It feels strange, familiar, 'til he remembers this has happened before.

"Okay," Bruce whispers so only Steve can hear. "I'm okay."

"We follow orders," Natasha's saying calmly. Clint looks unhappy, rolls a cement pebble between his thumb and forefinger.

"That a yes, then?" Steve asks them, and Clint looks up.

"Like I said," Clint answers. "They only gave us enough to get the job done. We have no preliminary assessment, no ongoing-investigation notes, no summary of related incidents. Fury just told us to take care of Magneto." The lines between his eyebrows are sharp and deep as he meets Steve's eyes. "SHIELD tells us just as much as they tell you, these days."

Natasha's studying Fury quietly, utterly without expression. Gives a guy chills to look at her, sometimes. For all the wrong reasons.

"We're gonna play this one by ear," Steve says firmly. "If the SHIELD's actively working with mutant terrorist cells, Magneto'll probably be outta custody pretty soon. I figure we don't let on we know anything. Have a game plan for next time he attacks."

"Since we do report to Fury," Natasha tells him, "you should keep us out of this for the time being. We can't tell him what we don't know."

Clint looks unhappy, but nods. "She's right."

"I'm always right." Natasha glances at Bruce speculatively. "Keep in mind that we aren't the only ones following orders. If this involves the Council, Fury's hands are tied."

Steve takes them in, Tony's anger and Thor's frustration and Loki's cold eyes. Bruce with his heart only just this side of caged, Clint with a tight jaw and Natasha fierce and distant. "That reminds me," Steve says.

He covers the fifteen or so yards to Fury, comes up and stands quietly beside him. Together, they watch as Magneto's glass cage is loaded onto the transport vehicle. Without his costume, he looks like an old man who's fallen asleep. They've bound his wrists and ankles with zip-ties.

"I'm officially requesting singular command of agents Romanoff and Barton," Steve says without preamble.

There's a pause while Fury gives two junior agents a sharp look. They scurry away. "Why should I honor this request, Rogers? They're two of my best."

"Not anymore, they're not," Steve says curtly. "They're two of mine."

"Anything in particular that's brought this up?"

Steve tilts his head back, firms his jaw. "Agent Romanoff's active-duty condition last night was not acceptable. She shoulda been hospitalized."

"I needed her take on Loki. No one's a better read than she is."

"You didn't need her as bad as she needed someone to stitch her up," Steve bites out. "We had Thor and Bruce. Interrogation coulda waited 'til morning."

"Even if I agree, which I'm not sure that I do, the Council won't approve the transfer if they get wind of it. Which they will," Fury points out evenly. "They don't think I have enough control over the Initiative as is."

"Your agents are no good for undercover work anymore," Steve says. "Their faces are known. Tell the Council they got no reason to turn me down. Tell them I insist."

"Are you prepared to tell them that yourself, _soldier_?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate for a second.

Fury lets out a long-suffering breath. "I'll see what I can do. If they refuse?"

"Then I want override clearance. I wanna be able to pull either of them off SHIELD missions at my own discretion." Steve clears his throat. "I want full disclosure, and I want the final say on what constitutes a medical emergency. And whether or not they get checked into a hospital."

Fury's silent for awhile, but not as long as Steve might've expected. "I'll take a look at their paperwork."

* * *

It's mid-afternoon by the time they're done for the day. There was a suspiciously cut-and-dry debrief, some deflective speculation, and—paperwork, at the end. Agent transfer paperwork. Steve gets the impression that Fury's trying to sneak it under the radar with the mission report.

After, Tony hooks one of Iron Man's fingers around Steve's shield, draws him up short. "I think the Professor X angle is still a good idea. He'd have some insight on how to handle this sanctioned-terrorism crap."

"I'll ask him," Steve says stiffly. So Tony knows about his therapy sessions after all. He tries to keep his face blank.

"Let me know what you find out," Tony says. "We'll compare notes." He must be preoccupied, 'cause he doesn't even invite Steve back to the Manor with the rest of the team.

Later that night, Steve does some research. He uses Google. Joins a couple online forums, gets a feel for the mutant rights movement. Philosophies and methods.

The following Monday, when he sees Charles, the man's handsome face seems twice as lined and half as sure as Steve remembers.

"Your garden's starting to sprout." Charles smiles, but it's obvious he's gotta work at it. "There are a few new weeds, though."

"Sir," Steve says. Like last time, his stress and worry bleed out with the heat of the sun, and the dark knot of troubles loosens and dissipates. But he holds on to his question, and after about twenty minutes the weeds are taken care of.

"Professor," he asks. Charles looks up from a book. He hasn't been interrupted once, by students or otherwise.

"Yes, Steven?" He marks his page, settles the text on his lap. Gives Steve his full attention, 'cause he's exactly that kinda person. Half the healing is meeting someone's eyes, Steve thinks absurdly. Then he realizes it might not be his thought at all, might be Charles supplying a subtle answer to a subtle question. It makes him feel strange. But it comforts him, too.

"About Magneto," he starts.

Charles' face ages even further. "I think we would be more comfortable in my study."

* * *

"Erik Lensherr is a man of rare strength and sincerity," Charles says. "Despite my own gifts, I have never felt so powerful, nor so connected to a greater vision, as when I stood shoulder to shoulder with that man." There are shadows around his eyes. There is loss and grief and steely resolve. There is resignation many decades old that aches even now.

"His presence bolsters you. He is a whetstone. He brings all things into his sharp focus."

Steve thinks about being in someone's pocket. His stomach goes cold.

What Steve learns, in Charles Xavier's study, is a how couple of extraordinary people can move mountains. Between them they've got ambition, empathy. Charisma. A clear vision of everything wrong with the world they live in. They can _fix_ things. All they gotta do is stay together.

But it's hard to build a hospital when your partner wants a crematorium. When you can't make the foundations work, 'cause making peace means letting go of vengeance. When, for one of you, peace was never an option at all.

Steve learns you can try to heal the infection, clean the wound. Or you can just cut out the dead and dying tissue. What he learns is neither of these men are right, 'cause you can't just kill everyone who thinks different than you. But you can't let them continue to poison the minds of others, either, 'cause then the wound will never close. Eventually, the infection spreads and destroys everything.

In the end, Steve doesn't ask Charles what to do. He figures it's the question Charles has been asking himself for the last fifty years.

* * *

Phone's ringing off the hook when Steve gets back from his workout.

"Why didn't you answer your cell?" Tony demands.

"I was at the gym," Steve says. "Why are you calling at seven in the morning?"

"Thought I'd do you a favor," Tony says flippantly, "since _you_ never actually call _me_. I know you know how." He pauses. "You're welcome."

Steve shifts the phone to his shoulder, rifles through his bag for a towel. "I'm just about to jump in the shower, Tony."

There's a beat of silence. Then Tony asks, "Are you busy later?"

It's Tuesday. Steve's schedule is devastatingly free. "Why?"

"Have dinner with me," Tony says. "I'll pick you up. Seven?"

"Tony—"

"To compare notes," Tony says.

"Fine." Brief trickles of sweat shiver down Steve's spine, collect in the creases of his chest and belly, under his arms. He thinks about cool water on his face and back. He closes his eyes and sees blue.

"Dress sharp," Tony orders, and hangs up.

* * *

Steve answers the door at seven-fifteen. "You're late."

Tony studies him critically. "You look good," he says, even though he's the one in the flashy getup: rich, supple gray with teal and silver accents. Cufflinks that may or may not be set with diamonds. Goatee perfectly trimmed. Not that it matters, silk or engine grease or armor all beat to hell. He's Tony, and Steve is Steve. Nothing changes.

"Had some help," Steve admits. He picked up his suit late this morning, balking a bit at the sales associate's strong-armed enthusiasm. Fashion trends, prices. But it's not like Steve hasn't got the money for a suit, these days.

"Excellent tailoring," Tony says, reaching out and smoothing his hand over the ivory fabric. Steve thought it was a bit over-the-top, maybe. He's used to seeing black and brown, maybe dark blue. But he kinda likes the color against his forest green shirt, his matte-charcoal tie and shoes. "Stellar cut."

There's a brief second where Tony looks like he wants to say something else, but Steve sorta edges him toward the door. "Shoulders," Steve says.

"Waist, too." Tony's voice is soft as his hand falls to Steve's lower back.

Steve makes a neutral sound of acknowledgement, caught up in the warmth of Tony's palm on his spine. How it soaks in through three layers of clothing.

"So about Loki," Tony mentions lightly when they get outside. He's parked his sharp little sports car on the curb, left her running. He goes around to the passenger side, and Steve doesn't realize Tony's opened the door for him 'til he's already sitting down.

He doesn't know what to do with this. So he simply waits for Tony to continue.

"I know we've only had him for a few days." Tony pulls the car out into traffic. "But what Natasha said. About red on her ledger. And that freaky shit Loki did where he, y'know, wasn't all there for a minute or two. To find out about Magneto and SHIELD?"

Steve glances at the speedometer and firmly reminds himself that he jumps outta planes and buildings. Rides a motorcycle. Has been known to hang off trains going at full speed. He wonders if Tony even knows how fast he's going, or if it's just another thing he doesn't think about. Like with Pepper.

If maybe it's a thing he _does_ think about, like Bruce, but isn't particularly concerned with, like the Hulk.

Steve gets a feeling in his gut, like he's just a player on a stage. How Tony sees everyone that way, maybe. It's not a nice thought.

"It has to mean something," Tony murmurs, squinting at a stoplight. Steve doesn't know why anyone would wear sunglasses on an overcast day. "Being part of our team."

"It does," Steve says. Maybe it didn't, at first. But it does now.

"Right. And Loki fixed Clint's eye. I didn't watch him do it, but Loki said he could, and now Clint can see. They're even mostly getting along." Tony says. "Loki's interested in the arc reactor, too. I told him we could trade, his magic super science for my arc technology."

Tony leaves the car with the valet, holds the door for Steve and ushers him inside.

The restaurant's in a hotel, has the kinda angular, whimsical architecture Steve's still trying to get used to. Lavish furnishings, seven- and ten-course meals, waiters you hardly notice. The ceilings are so high and the lamps are so low that he looks up into faraway darkness.

After they've ordered drinks, Tony volunteers, "I hacked SHIELD's latest server encryptions earlier this afternoon."

Steve assumes servers, like many things in the twenty-first century, run on electricity.

"You find anything?" Steve asks at length.

"Loki's file," Steve glances over at him, notices the dark shadows beneath his sunglasses. Wonders if Tony got any sleep at all last night, if he's eaten today. Figures at least food's next on the list.

Tony picks at his cuticles. "I found a pool of directives, different options for how SHIELD plans to handle him. Officially." His face twists. "One of them in particular stood out."

Steve listens, chewing his food. It's excellent—Tony ordered for him, didn't even ask, but Steve would've been pretty lost with the menu. Expensive French food seems to be a theme of the future-present. When he glances up, Tony's watching him quietly.

"What Loki said." He pushes something unidentifiable around on his plate. "Wanting to stay with Thor. Not wanting to fight him." His eyes are bright. He looks so young. "Do you believe him?"

"I do," Steve says, blood rushing in his wrists, slinking around in his chest.

"Why?"

"People get tired of fighting, Tony," Steve says. "You get tired of fighting against people who try to fight for you."

Tony takes a drink of his wine, long and deep. Then he says, "They're considering lockup, torture. Learn what they can from him, then break him down to his base parts to see how he ticks."

Steve's jaw goes tight. He doesn't realize he's curled his hand into a tight fist 'til Tony reaches forward, covers it soothingly with his own. "The actual wording is something like, 'Thorough and exhaustive examination of subject,' but it's SHIELD, and it's government, and there isn't anything else that can mean."

"I didn't promise Thor I'd keep his brother safe," Steve says angrily, "just so SHIELD can kill him behind our backs."

Tony's eyes glow in the dim light. The way the shadows cut around his face, catch gleaming copper and dusky charcoal in his dark, dark hair, moves through Steve like a spirit. He wants to paint Tony, just like this. Layer the rich washes, give it contrast and depth. Give it some softness, too. Capture it in perfect balance, so he'll always have it.

"I've made _billions_ off sanctioned murder," Tony murmurs, shoulders bowed in a sharp line as he hunches forward. "Clint's a sniper, and Bruce has killed people horribly—accidentally, but horribly—and everything Natasha said about herself? Red ledgers, Coulson? It's all true."

"Tony—"

"Look," he goes on, "We can absolutely vilify Loki. He's done some terrible shit. But he's not a sociopath. He's just a fucking mess like the rest of us." He squeezes Steve's hand and then lets him go. "The only one of us with a clean slate is you, Cap."

Nobody's got a clean slate, Steve thinks with a tightness in his belly. Sometimes you don't even know who you're hurting 'til after the fact.

Their waiter serves dessert. Steve's throat is tight when he asks, "What'd you do with the files?" He takes a bite of his chocolate-and-coffee mousse cake. Tony called it _tiramisu_.

"I deleted them. I deleted all of them except the one about integrating him into the Avengers." Tony picks at his plate, drinks more wine. Eventually he says, "If he's going to be part of our team, he's part of our team. We can't—it isn't," he fumbles, and Steve looks up, looks him over. "If Fury lets Loki join the Avengers just to—pacify Thor. To get Loki's trust. So it makes it easier, when the time comes, to. Trap him."

"We won't let that happen," Steve says. "To be honest, I'm more concerned about what he said about magic doors." _You haven't made a lot of friends, Loki_, he remembers. He frowns. "Feels like we're gonna have another fight on our hands at some point."

"Isn't this some bull," Tony laughs harshly, "talking about defending this goddamn egomaniacal space-age Hitler."

"It's their methods," Steve sighs.

"SHIELD has this bad habit," Tony agrees, "of going about things exactly the wrong way."

Steve'll be damned if he lets liars and killers run the show. The Avengers are _his_. It's gotta mean something, being a part of them. So the Avengers are his, they'd be his even if he didn't like Tony at all, if he didn't get along with Natasha, if he couldn't deal with Thor and if Bruce wasn't his friend.

He's starting to understand, a little, what Clint meant. About family.

* * *

Steve doesn't notice 'til Tony's fumbling with the pen, paying the bill. Clumsily waving Steve off when Steve tries to put in for it, pay his share.

Then he counts back and does the math. Figures how many glasses were his outta those two and a half bottles of wine Tony'd tossed back like water. Comes up with maybe three.

Tony's drunk.

"Elevator," Tony says, hand warm on Steve's arm as Steve steadies him, leads him through the lobby. "C'mon, c'mon, got something to show you."

Wordlessly, Steve bundles Tony into the elevator. He activates it with a room card, fingers unsteady over the buttons. They're going to the top floor.

"You feeling okay?" Steve asks, glancing out into the night as the city falls away beneath them. The elevator's on the outside of the building, all glass so Steve can see for miles. The sun set maybe an hour ago, and New York is a cradle of bright, multicolored stars in a bottomless black abyss.

"Perfect," Tony answers, leaning back against the glass. "Never better." He's flushed, his tie come loose. He closes his eyes, but when the elevator stops, he looks over and smiles at Steve. He's so fucking gorgeous it's a punch in the stomach, and Steve looks away.

Tony leads him to a hotel suite. There're two levels, a kinda lower lounge area and an open, upstairs bedroom. Like the ride up, it's got a hell of a view, floor to ceiling windows and no other buildings to block the distant streets and the far-off bay.

"Okay, so," Tony says, warm and close. "Don't, uh. Don't go anywhere, 'kay?"

"What?" Steve wrinkles his brow.

"You wouldn't be the first date to slip out on me soon as I've got my head turned," Tony jokes. Only it doesn't sound all that funny.

He disappears into the bathroom. Steve stays by the window, looks up at the empty sky. Thinks about light pollution, how it blots out the constellations he grew up with as a kid. How people keep their stars on the streets now.

When Tony gets back, he comes up from behind and slips his arms around Steve's waist. Presses his cheek into the back of Steve's neck.

"Thought you had something to show me," Steve says. Tony's arms tighten.

"I lied," he replies. "I want to talk." His hands fan open, spread over Steve's chest and belly in slow circles.

Steve turns around, catches cold fingers, pins them in place. "This ain't happening, Tony."

"I know what it means." Tony's slurring a little, but his eyes are bright and sure. "To follow someone around, hassle them about eating. Check on them, make sure they're okay when they're spending too much time alone. I know what it means," and here his palm flattens, hot and steady, over Steve's heart. "Having your pulse go crooked and haywire because some idiot's almost gotten himself killed." He brings his and Steve's hands to his mouth, kisses Steve's knuckles. Then he steps back.

Steve watches him, aching.

"I know, Steve. I do." He searches Steve's face. "But I'm starting to think you don't."

"I can't do this, Tony," Steve says. He can hear the roughness of his own words, the way they hitch and fall.

"You want to," Tony says. His tongue darts out, wets his mouth. His eyes never leave Steve's.

"I do," Steve finally admits. The world seems a thousand miles away in all directions. "But I'm telling you no."

Tony, soft and drunk and sweet. Earnest like Steve rarely sees him. Hands hot and dry, skating up Steve's forearms. Tony, carefully asking, "Are you?"

Steve thinks about the things you want, the things you're willing to pay for. Tony smooths his thumb over the pulse just inside Steve's elbow.

Steve doesn't say anything more. But he gets a hand in Tony's hair, drags him forward, kisses him 'til he can't breathe. 'Til everything in his world narrows down to one fine point: the taste of wine, the pliable heat of Tony's limbs. The slow rush as Tony fumbles outta his clothes and the cool, five-star hotel room sheets.

Tony's arc reactor spilling out, chasing away the shadows and staining everything with the color that means home.


	6. Part III: Freeway, Chapter Four

**The Stone Series: Part III  
****Freeway  
****Chapter Four**

Steve loses time. It's happened before.

He's got Tony on his belly, a pillow shoved under his hips. The arc reactor sealed against the sheets, drawing the darkness close and soft around them.

"Jesus," Tony breathes. The long muscles in his thighs coil and stretch with the slide-snap of each thrust. He presses his face into his arm, braces his palms flat against the headboard. Rocks back every time Steve pushes in.

It's all Steve can do to keep rhythm without losing his mind. With reverent fingertips, he traces the tiny, faded scars that spill over the curve of Tony's spine, sleep in the hollows of his shoulder blades. Droplets of sweat bead above and beside them like luminescent jewels, and Steve slows his pace so he can follow them with his tongue.

"Nonononono," Tony pleads quietly. There's a fine tension in his arms, a kinda delicate tremor that drifts through him like a pulse. "Don't stop, don't."

"Not stopping," Steve mouths against his damp hairline, high on the back of his neck. Punctuates his words with a long, steady pull. Pushes in again, makes sure Tony feels every goddamn inch.

"Oh _fuck_," Tony locks his knees together, clenching around Steve's swollen cock, "You can't, I, you just—_Steve_—"

"Shut up, got you, I've got you," Steve chokes out, arms snaking around Tony's chest and belly, holding him in place. Picks up the pace and loses himself in the paradise of heat and sweat, the softness of the sheets under his knees. How Tony smells, how they seem to fit together like a lock and a key. Crafted from the same metal, engineered by the same hand.

Tony comes with a pale, ragged sound, and Steve's mouth on his shoulder. When he's got his breath back, Steve whispers, "Roll over, sweetheart."

"Mmm?" Tony murmurs blearily, but does as he's told with lazy, liquid movements. The room floods with teal light. Steve settles between his legs, hitches one of Tony's knees over his shoulder. Gets a solid grip on his angled thigh.

"What—" Tony shudders as Steve slides home. Then he hisses under his breath and hooks his ankles together, draws him in deeper. There's nothing in Steve's life as beautiful as this singular, sacred moment.

He's gotta stay here as long as he can, make it last. 'Cause he can't keep it.

"_Shit_." Tony's hands are tangled up in the sheets, his hair loose and soft around his face. His dick brushes against Steve's belly, stiffening again, but Tony stops him when he reaches between their bodies.

"Not yet," he says in a rush, "too soon, you still haven't, you," but Steve bats him away. Palms the slick length of him, fucks into him as Tony fucks up into his hand.

He shifts Tony's legs so he can kiss him through it, and Tony's toes curl into Steve's calves like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Steve gets his arms around him, moans at the pressure as it rolls through the body beneath his. Waits it out with his teeth clenched tight.

"Steve," Tony whispers against his ear, his mouth wet, and then his voice goes high as Steve starts moving a third time.

Mercilessly, he sinks his fingers into Tony's hips. Flexes forward, in and out, fast and hard, the whole world fading to white around him. Tony with tears in his eyes, so sensitive from coming twice already. His voice, mangled and loose and loud. The smell of his sweat and his come, his cologne.

Steve's mind goes blank after that. There's a hand twisted in his hair, heat leaking against his belly. A universe of starlight behind his eyes.

Moments or minutes later, Tony's wheezing beneath him. Flushed, words bursting out like his lungs are on fire. "Jesus _christ_, what." His voice sounds like it's all full of holes. His hands trace angular shapes over Steve's back, slow and hesitant. "If you were—if you were gonna go again, I'd have to," he sighs, swallows delicately. Presses his sweaty face into Steve's sweaty shoulder. "To s-stop you, so fucked-out it fucking _hurts_, fuck."

Steve kisses his temple. The arc reactor's digging into his chest, warm between their bodies. It's kinda nice. "Shoulda told me to stop," he murmurs. The guilt starts slowly, creeps in to erode the vibrant balm of release.

"Not on your life," Tony laughs breathlessly, banishing Steve's worries with a gesture. "But that isn't usual for me, so don't expect a repeat performance for a while. I don't think I'll be able to get it up again for a week."

"Noted," Steve says, sliding outta bed to grab a washcloth.

Tony watches him go. "Did I say week? I probably meant day. I probably meant tomorrow night." He swallows with a dry click as Steve returns. "I mean I definitely said in the morning. This morning, after we go to sleep for awhile and then wake up again."

Steve doesn't say anything, just does the best he can wiping them down. They made a hell of a mess.

"Hey," Tony says quietly. "Steve."

When Steve doesn't look up, Tony pulls him firmly back into bed. They spend a minute maneuvering around the damp spot. It isn't hard. There's a lotta space.

Tony squeezes his arms, his ribs, his backside. Reaches up with a tired, lazy fingertip and taps his face gently. "You," he yawns, "—'ve got come on your jaw."

"Mmhmm," Steve mumbles, pulling Tony against his chest. Nothing in the world like it, someone warm and pliant in your arms. Someone that, someone you—that you could—

"Look," Tony says, voice thick with sleep, but Steve doesn't hear what he says after that. There's a peace in his bones he hasn't felt for a long time. It stretches all through his body, swallows him whole. Takes him far away.

* * *

He wakes up several hours later with Tony's face pressed into his neck, the heat unbearable under the blankets. The room's almost completely dark. It stays that way 'til Steve peels their bodies apart and Tony's heart glows, muted and luminous, through the sheets.

Steve's sweating, and ravenous, and smells like sex. He takes a cold shower, which deals with most of these things.

There's shampoo and soap, but not the sample-sized hotel kind. While he's towelling off, he sees the toothbrush. It's red and yellow. There's a second one on the counter still in its packaging.

Steve purses his lips. But then he catches his reflection in the mirror: damp and bleary-eyed with messy, wet hair. Shoulders relaxed and low, drained of his usual restless energy.

There's a fading indentation on his ribs, geometric and clean-edged, from how they'd fallen asleep. He touches the shadow of a bruise, half-wishing it wouldn't be gone in an hour. Half-irritated that Tony didn't bring him out to dinner to _compare notes_ at all.

It's about five-thirty. Steve would go for a run, but he honestly doesn't feel that particular itch yet. And he doesn't have a t-shirt or sweats.

Which reminds him. Towel around his waist, he walks quietly around the room and picks up their clothes, discarded so hurriedly last night. He folds them as neatly as he can.

"Dry cleaning," Tony mumbles from bed, the room growing faintly brighter as he stretches out on his back. "Room service." He yawns, long and luxurious. The sheets are bunched around his belly. Steve kinda wants to kiss his nipples. "Order whatever, I'll eat what's left."

"Didn't mean to wake you." Steve sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed, powerless to chastise him about _lying_. Tony immediately crawls close, squeezing Steve's knee briefly before burying his face into the pillows.

"Didn't. Phone is there." He doesn't really point, but kinda jerks his shoulder in the vague direction of the nightstand.

After a minute or two, Steve finds the hotel-issue dry cleaning bag and bundles their laundry inside. There's also a room service menu near the phone. Stomach rumbling with interest, he tries not to be appalled at the pricing. Steadily reminds himself of inflation, how there was probably less money _in the world_ in the nineteen-forties than in Tony Stark's present-day bank accounts.

He orders the dry-cleaning service and about half the menu. His problem, when he's hungry, is everything looks good. It's pretty hard for him to pick and choose.

The only hiccup happens when there's a knock on the door, 'cause Steve realizes he doesn't have anything to answer it in except a towel.

"Housekeeping," the soft, slightly accented voice calls.

Tony fumbles outta bed wordlessly, like it's reflex. Grabs the dry-cleaning from Steve, gently maneuvers him outta the line of sight. Then he answers the door himself.

Naked.

"Thanks," he says flatly as the woman scurries away.

"_Tony_," Steve admonishes, but Tony waves him off.

"Nothing you can't find on the internet," he mumbles, burrowing back under the blankets.

"Least _I'm_ wearing a towel, you—"

"_What_," Tony snaps, poking his head up. His hair's sticking out in all directions. "Did you want to be on the internet, too?"

"I—oh," Steve says quietly. He clears his throat. "Um. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Now go play with my tablet or something while I sleep off the other half of this hangover. And my bone-dry balls. And my sore ass."

Steve swallows thickly, pretends his face isn't burning, and surreptitiously googles _Tony Stark naked_.

* * *

"Not my proudest moment," Tony says around a croissant. He's flipping through the browser history on his tablet, to Steve's great shame and fascination. He'd snatched it up around seven, along with a plate of pastries, when Steve went to the bathroom. "But you've got to admit it's a good angle for me."

It's not a good angle for Tony. It's a good angle for the young couple with him. Steve tries to sort out how he feels, if it's jealousy or revulsion or curiosity. If he feels possessive of Tony, or disappointed in him. If he doesn't care one way or another, 'cause the very young Tony in the photo became the Tony of today, the Tony he—the Tony who became Iron Man.

So Steve says, "I've seen better."

Tony stares at him. Then he laughs, surprised and pleased. Reaches over and wipes a bit of food off Steve's mouth, lets his thumb rest on Steve's lower lip. "You're not lying."

Steve bites gently at Tony's knuckle, then leans over and taps the tablet screen, banishing the lewd images. "I had an idea," he says. "You hacked SHIELD to get that info on Loki. Could you see if they got anything on Magneto? Maybe a list of the people his men are targeting?"

"You want me to hack into SHIELD to get you a hit list of anti-mutant troublemakers?" Tony draws his eyebrows together, like he's trying to puzzle Steve out. Then he looks keen. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I figure we can maybe sit them down, talk to them." Steve shifts onto his back, tucks his arms behind his head. "Be a little persuasive if we have to."

"You're talking dirty, Cap," Tony murmurs, moving the food outta the way so he can sorta curl up half on top of Steve. "Hit lists, scare tactics. What next? Lying to get into the army?"

Steve snorts, hooks an arm around Tony's neck and pulls him in. Catches his lips, kisses him just 'cause he can. Tony shifts his body, settles over Steve's hips with his thighs parted. Presses his palms into Steve's chest.

"We can let Magneto know that we're talking to these guys," Steve murmurs when they break apart. Tony's got a hand on Steve's face, their foreheads pressed together. "Charles'll pass it on. Meantime, we get Natasha to pay a few visits. Clint. Maybe Bruce if we got someone who thinks he's real tough." He slides the tips of his fingers slowly up and down Tony's waist. "Neutralize the situation without hurting anybody else."

"I'll look into it," Tony says, kissing along Steve's jaw. "I'll email you what I find. Just make sure I get out of bed at some point."

"Speaking of," Steve says. Then he sits up, careful not to jostle Tony too much. Glances up at him, the messy scrawl of his hair, the pillow lines on his face. "You gonna clean up any time soon?"

"Why? You like me better when I'm pretty?" There's still some frosting on Tony's mouth and fingers. Steve likes him however he can get him.

"You had an alert." He remembers the little yellow bubble. "SI meeting ten a.m.?"

Tony wrinkles his nose, shrugs carelessly. "Whatever. I can skip it."

But someone might put two and two together, Steve thinks. It was a close call earlier, with the maid. Steve hadn't thought about it at the time, how it's harder these days. Keeping a secret. The knowledge chills him, even as the shame ignites a sick heat in his bones. "I don't think that's a good idea, Tony. We're gonna be missed at some point."

Tony looks at him carefully, quiet and serious. Then he sighs grandly, making a show of it. Gripes, "Fine, fine. All work and no play." But his hands hesitate on the comforter. He's kept it modestly around his waist. "Look, Steve—don't freak out, okay?"

Steve looks up at him warily. "About what?"

An odd expression crosses Tony's face. Then he pulls back the blankets and slides outta bed.

Steve inhales sharply.

Tony's hips and thighs are covered with mottled, muddy bruises. Some are still splotchy and red, but most are edged with black. Almost all of them are some shade of purple-blue.

"Are those from—did _I_—"

Tony grabs at Steve's hands, which he belatedly realizes are hanging anxiously in the air. "I told you not to freak out. They're just bruises. They'll go away."

"They're—," the exact size and shape of Steve's fingertips. Painful to look at. _Evidence_. "God, Tony." Steve glances up at him, stomach rolling over. Tony gets a firm hand on his jaw, tilts up his chin so he can lean down and kiss him.

"I regret nothing," Tony murmurs, amused. Edges his thumb over Steve's cheekbone. "And I don't mind. I get banged up worse in the suit on a regular basis." He winks. "You should think about giving me a hickey next time."

Steve swallows. Since there's no helping it, since Tony's gonna see it anyway—he reaches over and gently taps the reddish bite mark just above Tony's shoulder blade. "To match this one?"

"What?" Tony cranes his head back to look at it, ends up wandering over the closet mirror for a better view. "Oh. Huh. Awesome."

Steve stares at the supple lines of his shoulders and thighs, the smooth plane of his belly. The bright glow of the arc reactor, set in his chest like a precious stone.

Tony goes still under his gaze. Licks his lips. "So, yeah. Shower."

"Can I come with you?" Steve asks, bewildered even as the words tumble out. But he might not get another night with Tony, another handful of stolen hours. He's already going to hell for this. Might as well take what he can get in the meantime.

Any minute, all this could be gone. It's an awful feeling. It never goes away.

"You already took a shower," Tony says, glancing at him sideways.

"So I'll take another," Steve answers. He hopes he doesn't sound desperate. Can't be helped either way, though.

"It's a free country," Tony allows.

He's oddly quiet as they step under the water. When he reaches sideways past Steve for the bottle of bodywash, Steve automatically slips his hands around Tony's waist. Slides wet fingers over the bruises he made last night with his left hand, rests his right low on Tony's back. "Hey," he says, leaning down to breathe in the smell of wet, unwashed hair. Flat and curling against Tony's neck and forehead, it's longer than it looks dry.

"Hey yourself, Cap," Tony replies. He's not looking at Steve. He's not looking at anything, but he's picking up a frilly green ball that looks kinda like mesh plastic. Turning it over in his hands.

"So. You can get this wet?" Steve asks curiously. He skates the fingers of one hand gently over the smooth surface of the arc reactor, the scarred flesh surrounding it.

Tony goes still in his arms. "Yeah," he says. "It's, uh. Waterproof. Like stainless steel. High iridium content." His eyebrows are pulled together unhappily.

"Something wrong?"

"No, I—no," Tony says abruptly, and then he turns his back on Steve.

Steam curls lazily around them. But Tony's neck is flushed with more than heat.

It takes a minute to register that Tony's acting _shy_.

Steve pulls him close with a soft huff. Revels in the slide of their slick skin. "Unbelievable," he says against Tony's wet ear. "Damn exhibitionist in bed, but a gentleman in the shower?"

Tony glances over his shoulder at him, wrinkles his nose. "In the twenty-tens, we prefer the phrase, 'a whore in bed and a lady in the streets.'"

"You're not a whore," Steve says, arms tightening around Tony's chest. "Or a lady."

"An argument could be made for either," Tony says, shrugging. "Actually, I—"

"Tony."

Slowly, the angles smooth outta Tony's shoulders. He leans back into Steve's chest, his body a perfect weight. "In bed," he explains delicately, "I can be very—distracting. So. I know this thing is, is weird. And I can't turn it off." He shifts slowly in Steve's arms so they're face to face. Traps the pale teal glow between their wet bodies, setting blue fire to every droplet of water on the walls. "It's in the way and it keeps Pepper awake and people stare when I'm in public unless I wear a three-piece suit which, by the way, is not at all amenable to a New York summer," he says in a rush.

"It's—"

"And here you are looking like a fucking model, just goddamn perfect down to your ankles, and I'm—not," he says at last, like it's gotta be pried outta him. "In addition to my other defects."

"You're not def—"

"Physically defective, as in _some_ of the broken things, lots of wear and tear. Not mentally of course, everyone knows I'm brilliant, it's why I don't make it to the gym every single day. I just." He trails off, darting furtive looks at Steve's face. "I have so many things to do in the lab, so my body is _imperfect_, marginally, because I have a _perfect fucking brain_."

There's an awkward silence while Steve studies his face.

Tony washes distractedly with the frilly plastic ball.

Steve stops him. "Let me," he says.

Tony watches him, eyes deep and unreadable like he might say no. But he does hand it over.

At Steve's expression, Tony smiles crookedly. "It's a loofah." He dumps a generous amount of bodywash on top of it. "The texture helps with the scar tissue."

Steve nods. Turns him gently by the shoulder, guides him against the tile with a soft clink of metal on tile.

"What are we—oh." Tony's quiet for a time.

Steve scrubs at his back, the criss-cross and spatter of pale markings. A long, thin line over his ribs and shoulder blade in a jagged, angular crescent. Shrapnel, torture, and minor abrasions from three months living in a cave. In the care and at the sufferance of terrorists.

"Not sure if you remember," Steve says slowly, scrubbing along Tony's spine less than he's caressing it, "but you said I wasn't—special. 'Cause the serum made me what I am."

"That was," Tony tries, shoulders in an unhappy line, but Steve cuts him off.

"I know what it was. Listen to me. Whatever your misgivings about my body, it's—it's me," Steve says. "This is me, and part of me, and it's what you—," he can't quite say _want_. He says instead, "—like. Unless I'm, uh. Misreading something."

"You aren't," Tony says. His voice his thin.

"So we're clear," Steve says, and presses a kiss to the back of Tony's neck. Presses his palm against Tony's heart. "This is you. It's what I like."

Tony turns to look at him, pulse flashing in his throat. He opens his mouth to say something. Steve waits, breathless.

There's another knock at the door.

"Dry cleaning," Tony blurts out, and barely rinses off before trailing water all over the bathroom and hotel carpet.

Steve sighs. At least he grabbed a towel this time.

* * *

"So they keep a room for you?" Steve asks, 'cause the suit Tony's changing into isn't the suit he wore yesterday. All that stuff by the sink and on the edge of the tub were already Tony's. He didn't even have the tablet at dinner last night, far as Steve can remember. Which means it's an extra he keeps in this room.

Steve's trying to be diplomatic about this. He _is_. But he kinda hates how he feels like Tony _seduced_ him. Steve doesn't need any help making his own damn mistakes, thanks.

"_I_ keep a room for me," Tony answers. "I own the hotel."

"Oh," Steve says.

"I like to drive these really neat cars," he explains casually, doing something complicated and precise with his tie. "I also like to drink. Some nights more than others." He turns away from the full-length mirror and brushes a strand of hair off his forehead. Dressed, beard neatly trimmed, hair mostly under control, he slips his cufflinks into place. He's devastating. "Personal experience dictates that it's prudent to do these exclusive of one another. With very clear boundaries."

"Right," Steve says. He's got on his slacks and his shirt, but not his jacket or tie. His sleeves are carefully rolled up over his forearms, and he hasn't bothered with too much more than combing his hair.

"So before I get distracted again," Tony murmurs, eyes heavy on Steve's open collar. "You think Professor X can be our line of communication with Magneto?"

Steve nods. "As far as what we need, yeah. I get the impression they're close. But I don't think—they don't help each other." He explains about them while Tony looks on. How one wants to lay waste, clear the path for a _new breed_ of humans. How the other wants to forge a respectful coexistence between groups of people that _loathe_ each other.

How there are decades of regard and affection between them, and no possible way they could ever make it work.

"So no on the Professor-X-brings-Magneto-over-to-the-good-guys plan?"

"That was a plan?" Steve asks bleakly.

"I have others," Tony purses his lips thoughtfully. "I like yours best, though. I'll see you tonight?"

Steve's heart constricts. "Tony—"

"Later today, I mean," Tony clarifies quickly. "I'll get you your hitlist, Captain Intimidation. We can figure out a _plan _of _attack_ from there." He smiles, half shy and half sardonic. Warms Steve through.

"Okay," Steve says.

Tony fumbles around for a minute, then produces the keys to his sports car. "Happy can drive me. Wanna take this hot little number home?"

Steve's about to say, Sure, that's fine. But then Tony's kissing him, close and warm, tongue easing over Steve's lips and into his mouth. Hands wandering over Steve's ribs and squeezing his backside. The keys jangle from where they're looped around Tony's thumb.

So all he manages is a soft, "Mmhmm."

"Shareholder meetings are boring as shit," Tony says, fingers resting in the crook of Steve's elbow. His lips are wet. "I'll text you."

* * *

Steve stops by his apartment to change his clothes and grab his gym bag. When he makes it to the mansion, Clint's around back shooting strange-looking targets. They're scuttling around on spidery metal legs. It's kinda unnerving.

"Huh," Steve says.

"My sentiments as well," Thor rumbles next to him. He's wearing jeans and a sleeveless shirt, larger than life and too solid to actually exist. Somehow managing to belong anyway. "I am unsettled at the manner in which they move."

"Tony build 'em?" Steve asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the wood railing of the deck.

"He did," Thor replies. "Your Anthony Stark is a master of his craft. I would have grave concerns, were his deeds or character at all questionable."

"It's true he'll never be one of the bad guys," Steve assures uncomfortably. _Questionable_ is caught in his head, and _deeds_. Character. Vile and dark, like a scratched record on repeat. "Where's your brother?"

"Loki is at rest," Thor says, a wrinkle creasing his brow. "The heat appears to tire him. He will stir within the hour to break his fast, however."

"I'm glad he's eating," Steve says. Across the yard, Clint's slipped up a tree, cat-quick. Hooked his knees around a branch, hung down to loose an arrow. Sweat gleams on his arms and a stretch of his belly where his shirt rides up. A target Steve didn't even see falls over dozens of yards away.

"I cannot know wholly the workings of his mind." Thor says. Then he turns and settles his big hands on Steve's big shoulders. "But it is good for us here. I owe you much, my friend."

Steve looks up into Thor's rain-blue eyes, too sincere and too full by half for this world. He eventually looks away. "You don't owe me anything, Thor. Just do what you came here to do and we'll call us even."

Thor lets his hands fall, looks back to the field. They watch Clint for a minute or two more in silence. Then Thor asks, haltingly, "Do you have a phrase in your language for—to be in the thrall of a thing of rare beauty? As when you set your eyes on a mountain just this side of dawn, perhaps, or uncover pure, unworked land. The ocean on a still day." He pauses thoughtfully. "Where you look upon a thing and it sets the blood arush in your veins and your spirit to soar. Do you take my meaning?"

In his art-student days, Steve read a book by a guy named Stendahl. He remembers: _As I emerged from the porch of Santa Croce, I was seized with a fierce palpitation of the heart (that same symptom which, in Berlin, is referred to as an attack of the nerves); the well-spring of life was dried up within me, and I walked in constant fear of falling to the ground._

"Not sure if there's a name for it," Steve says, squinting at Thor in the light. Sun's slowly creeping up overhead. "But I know what you're talking about. Happens to people when they see certain paintings, sometimes. Sculptures. Artwork they connect with on a deeper level than they expect."

_So beautiful you lose your goddamn mind_. He remembers trying to explain to Bucky, who'd laughed and laughed. Who'd cuffed Steve on the ear and called him a dummy, who'd fallen to his death a few years after.

Thor hesitates briefly. "On Asgard, we have a fairytale about a child with soot-black hair and ice-white skin. I have always found the contrast to be arresting."

Steve tries not to think about Bucky anymore, or Peggy or Howard or _Tony_. How the most important people in his life could've been painted from the same rich, earthy browns and pale creams. With only a hint of red or blue, here or there, for accent.

Maybe Steve never woke up. Maybe this's all in his head, the hallucination of a dying brain. It's just wearing a different costume whenever it makes the rounds.

Voice kinda tight, he asks if Thor's thinking of anyone in particular.

"It is a story only," Thor says, patting Steve on the shoulder again. "It matters not how often or how well it is told. Nor even how many come to accept it as truth." He looks sad. "It will never be real."

Thor doesn't say anything else 'til Loki comes out to stand quietly beside him. Steve's thinking about how fairytales are just lies people made up for their kids. How they just seem real when you're little, when you believe them. There was a girl across the street from Steve's grandma's house, all those years ago, whose dad used to beat up on her. She was never rescued by a prince. Bucky never got to be a swashbuckling pirate lord.

Only Steve grew up to be what he wanted. He wonders if _Steve Rogers_ was a story that came true, or if maybe it was a story he just became. Then he realizes it's neither, 'cause Captain America's a legend: Steve Rogers is just the guy that got swallowed up. When the legend got too big.

Thing is, he can be Captain America better than anybody. He knows this. But he can't quite remember, in this new day and age, how to be plain old Steve Rogers. Thinks, sometimes, how maybe Steve Rogers was never real at all.

"You have done well," Thor is saying to Loki. "He hesitates rarely. His aim is true."

"It was nothing more than I owed him," Loki murmurs, eyes on Clint's precise, spare movements. "As now we are allies. I believe I have, in this regard, a great many debts to settle."

"It is not about debts, brother."

Steve looks over at Loki, notices his ashen face and the lethargic angle of his torso. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Makes Steve wonder about ice-white skin and soot-black hair.

In that instant, he thinks: There are two Norse gods standing next to me.

One's half in shadow, one's half in the sun. There's a kinda opposite symmetry to their coloring, to their bearing, to their history. A kinda truth to their story, and here they stand: larger than life, picked out in gold and ebony and sapphire and emerald. Wearing simple human clothes with the dignity of ancient kings.

If they can be so real, Steve can be real, too.

* * *

Steve runs into Natasha on the way back from the bathroom. She looks like she's just rolled outta bed, her hair tied loose and messy at the back of her neck. She smells warm and sleepy. She's wearing an old gray sweater. There's something familiar about _how_ she is, if not who. A small thread of nostalgia uncurls in Steve's chest. He can't place what he's missing.

"Hey, Cap. Word on the street is you decided to keep us," she says. She doesn't actually touch him, but she walks pretty close. It's a moment or so before he realizes she's fallen into step with him, the way she walks with Clint.

"Well. It's hard to be a spy when you're a famous superhero," he says.

She shoots him a look of approval. She's almost smiling.

Clint's in the kitchen when they get back, explaining about toasters and frozen waffles to Loki. He's also trying not to laugh, and Loki looks kinda pissed off.

"Brother," Thor's saying patiently, "you simply press the lever—"

"I know how to _use_ the device, Thor!" Loki growls. His eyes smoulder like green flames. "I am inquiring as to its _construction_. I wish to know how it _operates_."

"Like I said, you just put the waffles in the slots," Clint explains, straight-faced, "and then you push the button, and then breakfast happens. Earth magic."

Loki rounds on him, "_You_—"

Steve gets a hand on Loki's sharp shoulder. "It runs on electricity. It's made outta metal and plastic and you plug it into to the wall to get power. It heats up metal wires that cook your food."

Jaw tight, Loki turns his head slightly. "I appreciate your explanation, Captain." His shoulders go down, and Steve drops his hand. Clint openly snickers, but Loki only rolls his eyes.

"Now that we've all been properly shamed by Steve's superior knowledge of modern electronics," Natasha says dryly, reaching around Thor for a mug. "Is there coffee?"

To Steve's right, Clint snags the mostly-full pot. He's close for a few bare seconds, smells like sunlight and green trees. "There is coffee," he greets, and pours her some with steady hands.

When Loki moves on to the microwave, Natasha explains the settings without actively trying to rile him up. Thor looks on, bemused.

"So. About you getting us out from under SHIELD," Clint's leaning against the counter, eating a plain waffle with his fingers and watching the others with interest. "You mean anything by it?"

Steve studies him in profile, brows knit together. "Mean anything?"

Clint's quiet for a minute, and it suddenly hits Steve that he hadn't even _asked _them. He'd just wanted them out, wanted their loyalties clear. Wanted it to be okay to trust them. Officially. 'Cause he already does.

Then he remembers their last handler was probably Coulson, like Tony said.

I've gotta start thinking about other people, he tells himself bitterly. Tony thinks about other people, tries to be careful with them. When he's an asshole, it's 'cause he chooses to be. At least he's honest about it: he never _backs into_ hurting someone like Steve sometimes does.

He should've asked. Clint and Natasha, they might not even _want_ him.

"I just like to know where I stand," Clint says, amiably enough. "Are you giving us back when you're done tiptoeing around SHIELD?"

Steve tries to understand where this is going. Thinks he gets it, a little. "Clint."

"What?" Clint's watching Thor ask a question about power levels, studying the sharp interest in Loki's eyes. Listening the flat, patient tones of Natasha's answer.

"Look at me."

Clint hesitates, then pulls his gaze away from Loki's curious gestures. He meets Steve's eyes, solid and sure.

"It's not about convenience." Steve says firmly. "It's about how roughed-up Natasha was the other night when Fury sent her over here. It's about how I never know if you're in New York or goddamn South America, and no one tells me when you've been injured." He tries to keep the anger outta his voice, 'cause it's not an issue anymore: they're _his_ now, not SHIELD's or Fury's or the Council's. He's got the paperwork to prove it, and that means something, these days. "You guys are mine. For as long as you wanna be."

Something flashes in Clint's eyes, complicated and focused. Heavy, even. He reaches over and squeezes Steve's wrist with intent, but all he says is, "You got it, Cap."

Fifteen minutes later, when everyone's more or less sitting and eating at the kitchen table, Steve's phone goes off. It's a muffled vibration in his pocket, but to Steve's ears it sounds like a damn buzzsaw. Irreverent and annoying. With a strange coil of anticipation in his gut, Steve fumbles for his phone.

Clint and Natasha, who've chosen to sit on either side of Steve and talk over him, drop their conversation about American-make firearms versus Russian.

"I gotta take this," Steve says stiffly, glancing at the screen.

"You can text at the table," Clint says, mouth sticky with fruit. "We all do it. Hot date tonight?"

Steve's stomach twists anxiously.

"It's from Stark," Natasha says curiously, shameless about peering over Steve's shoulder. "Why is he messaging you from his lab?"

"No, he's—at work. Stark Industries. There's a meeting today."

Over the silence that follows, he hears Thor tell Loki, "I will make inquiries." His voice is unusually gentle.

Loki's reply is soft and sharp. "Do not trouble yourself on _my_ behalf, Thor."

Steve clears his throat. Natasha thoughtfully chews her mouthful of toast while Clint sips his orange juice. He sets down the glass without a sound.

"So," Steve says. "I'm gonna. I'll be back in a minute."

"Sure thing, Cap," Clint says brightly.

Steve doesn't look back as he exits into the hall, but his shoulderblades itch. Like he's got two sets of eyes following him out.

He wonders if there're implications here that he doesn't understand. He hasn't quite got his head wrapped around texting yet, and there's a snag of fear, deep in his gut, that Tony's gonna give them away. That someone's gonna put two and two together, 'cause Tony can't be subtle to save his life.

Steve sighs. At least Tony's been working on the—well, the hit list. There really isn't a better word for it. He can focus on that for now, deal with the rest of this mess later. He reads the message.

_What are you wearing?_

Jesus christ. Subtle. Sure.

Steve texts back, _Clothes_.

After a minute or so, Tony replies, _Fascinating. You should tell me all about them._

Before Steve can respond, he gets two more messages: _I think I found what we're looking for in the SHIELD databases. Also I bought us tickets to go see Wicked._

_I thought you were in a meeting_.

_Sort of_, Tony texts.

Steve sighs. He doesn't envy whoever it falls to, making sure Tony actually runs his company. Then he realizes it's probably Pepper. And that he flat-out _covets_ what she has.

Tony doesn't explain what _sort of_ means. He mostly just wants to talk about having dinner again, maybe seeing a movie. Like it's something they're allowed to do, going around together. It makes Steve feel fond and furious. Guilty and exhilarated. Warm and afraid.

Eventually Steve just types out, _Call me later_. Hardly thirty seconds after he hits _send_, he gets back: _As soon as I get done with this fucking circus_.

He's putting his phone away when it finally hits him. He can call it whatever he wants: a bad decision he's gotta get past or a series of one-night stands with the same man. But no matter what angle you look at it from, Steve Rogers is dating Tony Stark.

* * *

Back in the kitchen, Natasha's reading a book. Steve's thinking about what people do versus what they want, what they say they want. He's beginning to tie himself into another hopeless knot. But the sunlight flashes on her bright hair, casts her face in shadow. Reminds him. "I've been meaning to ask. Natasha. Would you mind if I painted you?"

She looks up, startled for the first time he's ever seen. Then she tilts her head thoughtfully. "Nude?"

"No! No, I mean," Steve clears his throat uncomfortably, hoping to hell his face isn't as hot as it feels. "I just meant. A portrait."

"Hmm," Natasha says, glancing down at her book again. It's thick with yellowed pages, written in a language Steve doesn't know. "When?"

"Doesn't matter," Steve says. He's got a lotta time on his hands.

"Well," she says, carefully marking her place. "I'm not doing anything right now."

Natasha drives. Steve doesn't know if the car is hers or Tony's, but she operates it with a spare, efficient hand. It's the opposite of flashy, but she goes just as fast as Tony does.

When they get to Steve's apartment, Natasha rummages in the fridge while Steve opens the curtains. The living room gets good light in the middle of the day, so that's where he sets up his easel and watercolors. When he goes to fill up a jar with some water, Natasha's not in the kitchen anymore. He finds her in the spare room, looking at his practice piece.

"This is lovely," she says when he joins her. Her brows are knit together, drawing a fine wrinkle above the bridge of her nose. "I like the teal you've worked into the highlights."

"It's just practice," Steve explains. "There's a little bit of everything in there."

"You've really captured the skyline," she murmurs.

Back in the living room, she settles herself on the couch. "How do you want me?"

"You gotta cut that out," Steve says, smiling awkwardly, and Natasha smiles too. It's a rare one, full and beautiful and real. It lights up the room. "You'll give a old man a heart attack."

"I'll take that under advisement." She tucks her hair behind her ear, and Steve paints her just like that.

He uses red and orange with burnt umber for the shadows, the natural white of the canvas for the highlights. Thin washes, just like before, letting the pigment build up in the hollows of her throat and the curl of her hair.

He's just picking out her eyes in careful aquamarine when his phone rings. He leans up, stiff, and realizes he's been painting for two hours.

"Wanna take a break?" Steve asks, realizing with a guilty start that Natasha hasn't moved a muscle this whole time. Then he figures it's not the most difficult thing she's ever done, her line of work. The thought's not a comforting one.

"Sure." Natasha shrugs, stretching out the kinks in her lean body. The sun's moved some, but it still catches soft and smooth on her cheek, flashing bright in her eyes. He knew she was beautiful, objectively, but he's not sure it ever really sunk in before.

"You're not having an illicit affair," Clint says over the line, "with my best girl, are you?"

It takes Steve a minute to get over the cold weight in his stomach, to get over the words and catch up with the voice. "Not today," he replies evenly. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Well, we're not sold separately," Clint jokes, and a small smile tugs at Steve's mouth.

"It's mostly finished," Steve tells him. "I can finish the rest on my own."

"Is that Clint?" Natasha says, sipping a glass of pineapple juice. She comes up close near Steve's shoulder. "I can be at the gym in half an hour."

"I got my workout in this morning," Clint points out.

"Well, you're getting a bit fat," Natasha says lightly. Her hair brushes against Steve's jaw. In his ear, Clint snorts.

"But you were right about the painting," she continues. "Do you think he'll give it to us?"

"The practice one?" Steve asks, confused. Then he figures Clint saw it the day they went to the zoo. He probably had plenty of time to wander around the apartment. Steve doesn't know how he feels about that. But it's not like he has any secrets here.

"I'm prepared to offer explicit favors and funds from dubious sources," Clint says.

"If you say it's not for sale," Natasha adds, "we will probably end up stealing it."

Steve gives up and hands her his phone. "Tell you what," he says, "it's all yours."

"Mission accomplished," she says to Clint, playful in a deadpan kinda way. Steve wonders if maybe he's bit off more than he can swallow with these two.

* * *

After Natasha leaves, Steve spends another hour or so sharpening the details on her portrait. He increases the contrast, gives the highlights a kinda polished, porcelain look. Gives the shadows almost a grimy cast, hints at fissures and cracks, residual darkness.

He recognizes that it's beautiful, but studying it summons a black lick of nostalgia. The bad kind. It comes outta left field, twists up tight in his belly and his ribs. Fills the whole room 'til there's nothing left but hard, gray angles. He forces himself through the motions: setting the portrait to dry in the spare room where the practice painting was, changing into more comfortable clothes. Walking down the block to the gym, one foot firmly in front of the other, so he can work through the knot of despair in his chest with his fists.

It usually helps, exertion. But sometimes nothing helps.

He gets home around seven. Thinks about making dinner but doesn't quite get around to it. He's not one to let himself go hungry, but he can't summon the energy to get off the couch.

The problem with the portrait is it says, This is the functional surface, but this is the damage beneath.

Steve's been losing people for a long time. He wonders how he's supposed to forge all these relationships when he knows how the story ends. There's real anger behind the thought, desperate and heavy and black. There's Natasha from that Boston mission, and Clint possessed, and Thor in a snarl of blood and armor. There's Bruce outta his mind, irretrievable.

There's Tony in every way Steve can imagine: his heart gone out, or falling from the sky, or drowning. His suit crushed around his body in gleaming crimson and gold. His fast cars, how he skips meals and drinks too much.

Last night Tony said, _I know what it means to follow someone around, hassle them about eating. Check on them, make sure they're okay when they're spending too much time alone._

Steve feels like he's underwater. It settles around him like a heavy mantle, strangles him like layers of clothing caught up in the current. Weighing him down.

He moves without thinking, boots up his laptop. Types into the search engine, _Phil Coulson SHIELD obituary_.

It's sparse and no one Steve knows is mentioned. He searches Bucky after that, then Howard. His high school art teacher, the girl from his grandmother's neighborhood. Most of the members of the Commandos. His old barber.

It puts their lives and deaths in neat little boxes. Takes away what Steve remembers about each, replaces it with a short, uninteresting biography of things he didn't even know. Makes strangers outta these people he knew and loved, bookended by two empty dates.

He scrolls through pages and pages of ghosts 'til almost three in the morning. Like digging at a splinter, he can't make himself stop. These awful, colorless collections of trivia—they remind him of a time he was sure he existed. Even if he's slowly fading into nothingness, this half of history.

* * *

Tony shows up the next morning, dead on his feet.

"Tower's done," he mumbles, shrugging outta his wrinkled suit jacket. It crumbles to the floor. It's probably worth more than Steve's Stark Industries cellphone. "We can move in today. You don't have to live here anymore."

There are heavy, sleepless bruises under his eyes. There's a streak of black on his dress slacks, spattered over his cream-colored button-down. He fumbles unsteadily with his shoes 'til Steve steers him over to the couch.

"Here, let me," he mutters, getting down on one knee. Tony stares dimly at him, then settles back against the cushions. It's weird to have him so quiet. Steve unties his shoes, pulls 'em off one at a time. Peels off Tony's socks, gives his calf a squeeze before standing back up. "Rough night?"

"The roughest," Tony sighs. He touches Steve's wrist. "I didn't make it to the meeting. Pepper was furious. Also tore me a new one about a contract I may or may not have neglected to sign. I had to pull an all-nighter for the prototype."

Steve bends down to unbutton Tony's filthy shirt. He's not sure Tony notices. He thinks about how stupid it is, how Tony's got all this money and can't be bothered to eat or sleep like a regular human.

When Steve fumbles for the zipper around the hem of Tony's slacks, Tony goes still.

"Lift up," Steve says gently.

Tony peers at him blearily through dark lashes. Then, eyes hooded, he braces his body on his elbows and raises his hip enough for Steve to slide his pants off. He loosely kicks them away from his bare ankles, then slides his arms around Steve's neck.

He smells like machine oil, stale cologne, and caffeine. He's warm. "I missed you," he says quietly.

Steve kisses him, 'cause there's no helping it. Tony goes boneless against him. It's so easy. It's this beautiful lie: how they have each other when they don't. How they gotta steal every minute of it.

Tony's down to his undershirt and his boxers, and Steve supposes that'll do. So he hauls Tony off the couch with an arm around his waist and puts him to bed.

"Your turn?" Tony asks, pawing at Steve's shirt, but Steve catches his hand. Presses a quick kiss to his dry knuckles.

"Not right now. Lie down, Tony." He pulls back the sheets.

"Oh," Tony huffs accusingly. "I see what you're doing. You fight dirty, Rogers."

"You're not really trying unless you're trying to cheat." It's different, having someone in your own bed. Seeing Tony with his face buried in Steve's pillow, curled up in the place where Steve sleeps. He's never felt anything like it before.

"I am _scandalized_," Tony says. "You are destroying my fond childhood memories of the virtuous Captain America. He was a paragon of goodness. He did not lie or steal or take the Lord's name in vain."

"Probably shoulda thought of that before you started sleeping with him," Steve says.

"Speaking of sleeping. And not doing it." Tony leans up a bit, but Steve firmly pushes him back down. "I have a rental truck thing. We need to pack up your stuff. Moving day."

"My lease isn't up," Steve says, wondering if it's parked up on the curb like his sportscar. Tony keeps sneaking his hands out from under the blankets.

"Sure it is," Tony replies. His hands flutter to Steve's neck, his chest. The angle of his jaw. His eyes hold steady on Steve's mouth, dark and hot.

"Unless someone's cancelled my contract without my knowledge or consent," Steve says coolly, grabbing Tony's wrists with gentle fingers, "I know for a fact it ain't."

"Right," Tony says. He looks uncertain. Then he says, "I need to, uh. Make a phone call."

Steve shakes his head. "Don't cause any more trouble." He gently pins Tony's hands above his head.

"Then we should pack," Tony says around a yawn, arching his back a little in a way that makes Steve's belly go hot. "They'll want their moving van back at some point."

"I'll take care of it. You get some rest." He leans down and presses a kiss to Tony's cheek. Except Tony turns his head, opens his mouth.

"I missed you," Tony whispers again, moments or minutes later.

"You said," Steve murmurs back. "I'll wake you up in a couple hours."

"Hey." His eyes are dark and serious. "I'll get better. About calling when I say I will."

"I'm not your boyfriend, Tony." Steve says, standing. "You don't owe me anything."

* * *

Alone in his living room, his few worldly possessions packed carefully in brown boxes and stacked in the corner of Tony's moving van, Steve experiences a hollow wave of apathy. It's important, saying goodbye. You don't always get to. But he's not gonna miss this place at all.

* * *

Stark Tower isn't Stark Tower anymore. There's a giant _A_ at the top, and some stylistic choices that Steve's almost sure have everything to do with structural reinforcement. When they pull up to the front of the building to unload, there don't seem to be any handles on the doors.

"Like this," Tony says, pressing his hand against a flat, gray panel. The door slides silently open.

"Welcome home, Sir. Captain Rogers." JARVIS, polite as always. The lights go up gradually. "Shall I direct you to your quarters?"

"I can take care of him, Jay," Tony says. "Hold an elevator for us?"

"Of course, Sir."

Steve doesn't have much. Clothes, some books, some art supplies. He's not sure where SHIELD picked up the furniture or appliances, but anyway they weren't his. The only thing Steve really chose to keep is the laptop. It's StarkTech, which means it's probably on lend from Tony.

"Are these gonna be offices?" He asks as they carry boxes into the waiting elevator. It only takes them a few trips.

"Yeah, probably law offices. They'll pay top dollar for the prestige of being associated with Stark Industries and the Avengers." He presses his hand against another gray pad. "And it won't hurt to have legal counsel downstairs. Cap's floor, Jay."

"Certainly," JARVIS replies.

Steve glances at numbers on the console. There's over a hundred floors. And right at the top, in a neat row, are six multi-colored buttons.

"This is us," Tony says before Steve can get a good look. But when he steps into his new home, he forgets all about them.

It's not modern-looking or sterile, it's not made outta glass and metal with hardly any color. Instead, it's warm: lots of dark wood, lots of rich browns and gray-greens. Comfortable-looking furniture. A huge living space that opens up into a visible second level.

Without a word, Steve wanders out onto the oak floorboards.

Tony watches him, but doesn't follow as Steve explores. There are extra rooms on both levels. There's a kitchen when Tony said there wouldn't be. There's a rooftop patio outside a set of sliding glass doors, and full-sized, in-ground swimming pool. There's a _library full of books_, with a desktop computer and huge, round pillows on the floor. And a lounge. And an overstuffed chair. Next to the computer is one of Tony's tablets, except it's probably for Steve.

On the other side of the floor's a private gym, with all the weights he's used to mixed in with strength-training equipment he's never seen before. There's an indoor track. There's what look to be giant robot punching bags.

When Steve gets to the master bedroom, Tony follows him up.

The room is huge. The bed is huge. The master bathroom's huge. He knows there's high-tech stuff all over the joint, knows Tony wouldn't've been able to stop himself, but it doesn't _feel_ that way. It feels intuitive, maybe a little dated so Steve'll be comfortable. Even if there's too much space for just him, everything he could want is right within reach.

He doesn't know how to thank someone for a gift like this. He feels like he could love it here, in this place Tony made just for him.

Tony touches his elbow, brings him back. "Is it okay?" He asks neutrally.

Steve swallows. "Yeah. It's okay, Tony."

Tony stares at him. "I don't, uh. You really—," he licks his lips. Reaches up and kisses Steve on the mouth, light and quick, barely-there. Then he ducks his head. "You know, I think I've only seen you smile like twice? Three times, max. It's. It looks really good on you. You should do it more."

Steve leans down and kisses him again, much slower. Cradles the back of Tony's skull, slides an arm around his waist.

Tony's gasping by the end of it. "Bed," he murmurs breathlessly. "Surprise for you."

"Shameless," Steve laughs, but Tony shakes his head.

"Really," he grins. "Look."

The comforter set's a rich gold, but Steve doesn't think anything of it 'til he pulls it back. The underside is crimson. Beneath it—

"Tony."

"Hmm?"

"Where did you find Iron Man sheets to fit a king-sized bed." He knows they make superhero sheets for kids, 'cause he's signed off on a couple Captain America products through SHIELD. But people gotta grow up sometime.

"Obviously they are a prototype for what will become a wildly popular product. We all have themed bed sheets."

Or possibly some people never grow up at all. Tony sits down on the bed, spreads his fingers over the fabric. Looks mightily pleased with his work, 'cause he's like a damn kid. "Natasha has Hawkeye sheets and Clint has Widow sheets. Bruce has Iron Man sheets like you," he grins.

"Is this what you were doing all night?" Steve asks. Thinks, Is this why you didn't get any damn sleep?

Tony looks distantly guilty. "No. I was up working on a Stark Industries prototype, like I said this morning. I was working on the Tower yesterday afternoon. Upgrading JARVIS's security protocols, making the beds, installing StarkTunes. All things that had to get done."

"Why didn't you go to the meeting?" Steve asks. He doesn't let Tony pull him down onto the bed.

"Well. I did, except. I thought it was here? I ended up in the wrong place."

"Where were you supposed to be."

"What's with the twenty questions, Cap?" Tony asks impatiently. "I was supposed to be in LA. I wasn't. So no meeting."

"You—were you supposed to meet Pepper?" Steve takes a step back from the bed. He's got an image in his mind of a beautiful dame waiting for a plane to land. It never comes. It makes him sick.

"Well yeah," Tony says. "I don't know why she bothered, I've never made it to a meeting she didn't drag me to."

Steve clenches his teeth.

"So we argued about that, I got mad and hung up, then I went to the tower to finish installing JARVIS." He pushes his hand back through his messy hair. "She called about the prototype a few hours later. I finished it about six this morning and flew it over to her—"

"You _flew it over to her_?" Steve explodes, unable to frame this story in _any _context where everything that goes wrong isn't completely Tony's fault. Flying after being awake for twenty hours—he could've gotten himself _killed_. And for what, 'cause he doesn't pay attention to what's going on in his own damn life?

"Why are you _angry_," Tony snaps, his face going hard. "It happens. Sometimes I'm late, sometimes I don't make it. You don't have to look at me like I'm some kind of horrible person, Rogers."

No, Steve thinks, disgusted. Not horrible. Just the worst kinda selfish.

"If you follow the fucking tabloids, I'm drunk when I bother to show up at all, or perpetually on my way to or from an _orgy_. This is not new!"

"How can you forget you're supposed to be on the other side of the damn country!"

Furious, Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. He's not wearing the crumbled, filthy suit from last night. He's got on a pair of Steve's sweats, one of Steve's t-shirts. Steve's gotta fucking quit this.

He doesn't even try to soften the accusation in his voice. "How can you treat someone like that, Tony."

"What the fuck, Rogers," Tony spits. "Why are you so worried about Pepper? You're the one that's _fucking_ me."

Steve almost hits him. He feels the flash of heat in his face and neck, sees his vision go red. His fingers creak with the force behind his clenched fists.

Tony doesn't move. He just stares Steve down like he's daring him to throw the goddamn punch.

So Steve says, "Yeah. I _am_ fucking you, Tony. And I gotta tell you, I can't come up with a single reason why."

Something snaps in Tony's face, something Steve didn't even know was on the verge of breaking.

Steve swallows the fury grinding caustic and hot in his lungs. He just wants to get outta here, go anywhere else. Some things you don't say, even when they're true.

But Tony lurches forward, twists his fingers around Steve's wrist. Doesn't let go when Steve jerks away. He tightens his grip and hangs his head and _doesn't let go_.

"I deserve that," he says softly. His voice falls completely flat, almost monotone. Steve's never heard it sound like this before. "Pepper's too good for me. You're too good for me. Please don't leave."

If Steve walks away now, he'll never have to walk away again. It'll be rough, trying to work with Tony after this, but they could do it. They're all adults. If Steve leaves it this way, he could finally crawl out from under the guilt that's been crushing him for months. He could stop being selfish. He could let Tony go and get on with his life.

"Please," Tony says.

Steve's bones feel rigid, outta place. Brittle like ice. He stays.

Slowly, slowly, Tony uncurls his fingers 'til his hand falls away. "Pepper is my best friend," he says dully to Steve's chest. He doesn't look up any higher than that. "When she finds out I've been cheating on her, she'll leave me. I don't know if she'll leave my company, I don't know if she'll cut all ties with me, I don't know how bad it's going to be." There's a fissure in his voice, like the cracks in the bad parts of Natasha's painting. "I know I've handled this whole ordeal—pretty much the worst way I could have. I've made some terrible mistakes. I don't know what's going to happen."

Steve thinks hotly, We weren't supposed to keep this up. It didn't have to come to this. It didn't have to happen at all.

Steve says coldly, "Thanks for that. Good to know where I stand."

"That's not where I'm going with this!" Tony all but shouts, pushing himself to his feet. His fingers twitch, antsy and restless, but he doesn't touch Steve again. "If you'd just shut up for a second and _listen_ to me_—_"

"I've _been_ listening, Tony! You love Pepper, you can't live without her, but you're _cheating on her with_ _me_. I'm not here to justify your guilt! You can't just—"

"You don't under_stand_," Tony rages, "I—"

Steve reaches for him, caught up in his anger, consumed in a way he's never been. He grabs Tony's wrists, makes Tony inhale sharply and bare his teeth. "So _make me understand_," Steve commands. Then, softer, "'Cause I'm really trying to."

Tony stares at him, desperate and frustrated, at odds with what to say. Steve remembers, in this moment, how hard he had to fight just to get to know him at all. To get to a point where he even recognizes how it looks: Tony struggling to explain himself.

Steve takes a breath. Then he says gently, "I like to have a plan of attack before jumping outta planes, Tony."

There's a long pause where Tony's face goes white, then flushes red. He sorta snorts. Then he starts laughing, choked and strained. Slides to his knees with his face in his hands, howling.

Steve kneels down next to him, gets an arm around his back. It's really that easy.

"You must think," Tony hiccups, "that I'm batshit-fucking-insane."

"Not the exact description that comes to mind," Steve replies, settling his palm over Tony's spine. "But yeah, definitely."

Tony rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. Then he leans into Steve. "I'm leaving Pepper for you, Cap," he says firmly. "I guess I never said."

The bottom drops outta Steve's stomach.

"I haven't slept with her since I started sleeping with you. I don't know how to end things with her. It's not like I can just stop returning her calls." He looks down at his hands. "Breaking up with my girlfriends used to be her job."

"You're awful," Steve says, shaking his head. He touches Tony's hand gently. Lets it sink in that Tony's only been with him since they started; that Tony was, in his own way, almost faithful. There's a sweetness and a bitterness here: how maybe Steve _means_ something to Tony. How isolated Pepper must feel, without even knowing why.

"I know I am. She runs my company and she lives with me and I love her so, so much." Tony sighs. "After we went for coffee—at that outdoor cafe? I guess I was waiting for you to show your cards. Make a move, maybe. But you never did, and you got angry when_ I_ did, but. You didn't stop me."

"No," Steve answers soberly. "I didn't."

"So, look," Tony says, shifting uncomfortably. "My knees are getting stiff on this floor. Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

Steve can feel the muscle in his jaw stretch and ache. "Tony, as far as Pepper knows you're still marrying her." He hates how Tony's this kinda person, able to offer Steve something he badly wants at the expense of someone else.

But then Tony says, "Pepper and I aren't engaged, Steve." His eyebrows wrinkle together. "Did you think that? Not that it matters, we're in a committed relationship and I definitely cheated on her, but."

Steve looks up, feeling kinda dumb. He just assumed, 'cause they're living together.

"Anyway," Tony says casually, sliding his fingers through Steve's, "I'd rather marry you."

Steve takes a moment to process this. Finds that he actually can't. "I need to be alone for awhile," he says stiffly, climbing to his feet.

Something passes over Tony's face, dark and too quick to read. "I, ah. Is something wrong?"

"What's wrong," Steve says evenly, "is we're having an affair. What's wrong is we're moving in together with our friends and your _girlfriend_." Maybe he sounds bitter, but he won't be a damn placeholder 'til the next best thing comes along. You can't just trade people around. "What's wrong is you saying you wanna _marry_ me when you haven't even left her yet."

Tony's earnest, complicated expression slowly shuts down. Piece by piece, like he's boarding up the windows of an abandoned house. "So you don't want to be with me."

Steve's heart races, stilted and sharp. "It's not about that. You can't make decisions like this on your own."

"What other decision is there?" Tony asks, voice like a whip. "I can't stay with Pepper after I've been with you. I can't string her along when I'm not in love with her. And if you—if you don't want to be with me, I—I regret that, but I'm still leaving her. I have to. Steve, if you just—"

"Apologies, Sir," JARVIS says over the intercom, "but Colonel Fury is on the line. He says it is a matter of urgency."

"We are not done here," Tony whispers desperately as Fury patches in.

Steve's just thinking, We aren't even together and we're already penciling in arguments. These are all the worst parts of a relationship.

Then he has to bark a startled, "What?"

Impatiently, Fury repeats: "_Loki is destroying Central Park_."


	7. Part III: Freeway, Chapter Five

**The Stone Series: Part III  
****Freeway  
****Chapter Five**

Thing is, Loki killed upwards of a hundred people last time he was on the loose. So while Central Park doesn't really rank on the worst-case-scenario list, Steve's got no idea what they'll be walking into. That's the rough part, the not knowing.

But then Fury goes offline and Steve gets a look at Tony's face.

"Loki's attacking the city?" Tony repeats, bewildered. Then his expression hardens.

Steve frowns. "You don't think—?"

"What?" Tony bites out, all the warmth gone outta his eyes. They're the color of old brick, downcast so the light can't touch them, turn them gold. "That we're harboring an alien fugitive who's out butchering the general populace? That doctoring up those SHIELD files was a waste of my time?" He turns away stiffly, disappears inside the bedroom closet for a second or two. It's a lot bigger than the one at the Brooklyn apartment, and it makes Tony sound far away. "That I'm still a shitty judge of character at forty-fucking-five? Pick one, Rogers. Pick anything."

Steve shakes his head firmly, even as his heart sinks. "We don't know the situation yet."

"The situation," Tony says nastily, emerging with a blue bundle in his arms, "is that Loki's a pathological liar, criminally insane—"

"Tony. We gotta go," Steve tells him. "What's—"

"Armor," Tony says shortly.

"In the van with my shield." Steve moves forward, snags his elbow. "We need to get you to Iron Man."

"Cool your jets, creampuff," Tony snaps, his body a jumble of tight, frustrated angles. He shoves the bundle into Steve's arms. "Here. Welcome home."

It takes Steve a second or two to process what he's looking at: a new Captain America uniform. Upgraded with all the bells and whistles, looks like. He wonders where Tony found the time to make it. "Where are you going?" He asks, glancing up again.

"Suit up," Tony calls over his shoulder. His face could be carved from smooth stone. "I'll meet you on the roof."

* * *

Steve's never actually flown with Tony before. He kinda wishes he had, even in short bursts, before being hauled across the city a thousand feet in the air.

Through the dizzying height, the thrill of adrenaline in his wrists and chest, and the wet chill of the atmosphere, Steve tries to stop feeling like he's about to fall. But Iron Man's voice is distant and tinny and flat, when he even bothers to speak, and the arms around Steve's chest are stiff and utilitarian. A steely cage with the bottom cut out. So Steve feels like he hasn't got a solid place to stand.

The air whips around them, tearing at his arms and face and legs. Buildings roll by in staggered streaks, blocky and blurred like an ugly impressionist painting. Too crammed together to get the details right, too muddy to showcase the otherwise beautiful colors of New York City at the height of summer.

Tony's spotlight-bright attention, once it's off you, leaves you cold. It's a new experience for Steve—he's never had to miss someone he was physically _with_ before. But he's got a lot to think about, figures they both do.

He presses his face into the crook of Iron Man's neck, knowing Tony can't feel it. Closes his eyes, holds on.

* * *

Central Park's a damn warzone. Steve's seen enough to know.

Trees are torn up by their roots, pale and splintered like broken bones. There's an endless swathe of mud from where the Reservoir's broke open like soft tissue, wet and dark, leaking all along its rocky banks. The water seethes outta fissures in the stone edging like blood outta burst veins.

"Jesus Christ," Iron Man hisses. The lake's dotted with hundreds of pale, belly-up fish. Ducks, bloated and waterlogged, lose their feathers in oily clumps. Steam rises from the murky surface, opaque and foul-smelling with death. "How can—how is the Reservoir _boiling_!"

"Status," Steve barks into his communicator.

After a few moments of half-quiet white noise and Steve's own pulse in his ears, Black Widow responds. "Loki's on the Great Lawn," she says tersely. "Dead center. Hawkeye's got a bead on him from the roof of the Met, and I'm just off 85th. We haven't made contact."

"Thor and Bruce?" Steve asks, frowning at the poor connection. When he turns his head, Iron Man's standing close beside him, staring at the black clouds that race across the sky.

"Absent," she says.

Steve purses his lips. "Civilians?"

"No reported casualties so far, but visibility is poor."

Steve looks up at the sky too, studies the dark clouds churning over each other. The wind's picking up, dragging fallen branches and leaves over exposed soil. A section of tarp torn from a hotdog vendor flaps wildly like a wounded bird, fills the air with dust and dirt.

"Hold position," he tells her, throat tight. He hopes to a god he's not sure he believes in that everyone made it outta here okay. Then he realizes gods are probably what got him into this mess in the first place. Figures he oughta leave well enough alone. "You see anyone, you pull 'em out."

"Got it," she says.

"Iron Man, can you—?"

"I'll get an aerial. If you head in from nine o'clock—"

"We can back him up against the Turtle Pond, right."

"Right." Iron Man vanishes into the air just as the first fat drops of rain start to fall.

Five minutes later, Steve's soaked to the bone and circling the mangled softball fields. There's garbage all over the grounds, battered scraps of painted sheet metal, piles of crushed stone from either of the schists. A hot, heavy wind curls lazily through the air like an invisible leviathan.

The comm crackles sharply. Iron Man's voice comes through in pieces: "No idea how Hawkeye's gonna get a clear shot with all this shit flying around—"

"You just worry about your ham fists and your brute force," Clint says amicably. It's the first time he's spoken, and Steve's irrationally relieved to hear his voice. "Leave the detail work to me."

"I'll have you know—"

"Iron Man. Visual." Steve commands. He knows Tony doesn't respond well to authority, but Steve's got a whole laundry list of things he could've handled better in his life. They haven't got time for kid gloves right now.

"I'm assuming he's in the goddamn crater in the middle of the goddamn field," Tony snaps. "But unfortunately, what with all the interference I'm getting from the fog coming off the _boiling lakes_—"

"And all the dust in the air," Clint mentions. "And the rain."

"—huge fucking _storm clouds_—"

"I see him," Steve says suddenly. He's come to the edge of a great depression in the earth, as if Loki fell from the moon, as if he weighed thousands of pounds when he hit. The air seems too full, seems to be buzzing and sparking—seems dark and filthy, twisting in on itself like a tropical storm. Loki's barely visible, but unmistakable.

Steve gets his shield up and starts climbing down into the crater.

"Cap—," Iron Man says tentatively. Steve looks up on reflex. He catches the flash of gold and hot rod red through the dust clouds and debris, but only just. Feels like he's trapped beneath a frosted-glass bowl, overturned, maybe full of smoke on the inside.

"You stay outta range," Steve growls, biting back a grunt as a thick branch knocks him in the ribs. "You stay in the sky."

"Right, but, the thing is, I can't—"

"That's an order," Steve says firmly. "Follow it." He picks his way through the gouges in the earth, maneuvers over the broken remains of roughly half a forest. Ducks under his shield as a jagged length of chain link fence scrapes over him, tangles briefly, passes on.

"Steve," Tony hisses in his ear. "The fucking _tornado_ you're crawling into is _almost completely black_—"

"What I believe Iron Man means to say," JARVIS delicately interrupts, "is that, due to environmental factors, he is not confident in his ability to provide adequate support from his current position. He would respectfully request relocation, preferably to somewhere in your immediate vicinity, Captain."

"I don't need a goddamn translator—," Tony growls, but the rest is lost over the sounds of a tree breaking and scattering around Steve. The rain thunders down, heavy and hard, and decorative stones fall like hail against his shield. There's a concussive force buffeting at his entire body, turning his heels to lead, hitting him like the opposite of gravity.

"—mospheric anomalies," Widow's saying when his world's quieted some. "Thor has some control over the weather. It might be a god thing."

By the time Steve's close enough to really take a look at Loki, he feels like he's gonna be swept off the ground, like the wind could catch his shield like a kite, fling him into the sky. Loki's facing away from him, solid as anything, hunched on his knees with his arms wrapped tight around his middle. The bony lines of his back picked out through the wet rags of his t-shirt. Even though Loki's not a small creature, he looks small now: beneath the broken angles of his shoulders and the utter stillness of his silhouette, he even looks human.

"You good, Steve?" Clint asks neutrally. He sounds clear as a bell, not a lick of static.

"Gimme a minute," Steve replies. He takes another step, pausing at the watery suction under his boots. He glances down. Meets his own eyes reflected back at him from a standing pool of blood.

"No," Tony says fiercely. "We will not give you a fucking _minute_—"

The sick, cloying metal smell hits Steve hard, overwhelms him, makes him gag. "We need to get ahold of Thor," he rasps. "I don't think—he's not—"

"Steve," Tony presses, a thread of anxiety in his voice

"Cap," Natasha echoes quietly.

It's more blood than Steve's ever seen come out a person before. Loki's not moving...

"_Answer me_," Tony demands.

...and no casualties have been reported. Something clicks in Steve's head. "He's been attacked. He's—," bleeding out. Unconscious. Dead or dying.

"I can't fucking _see you_," Tony shouts in his ear. "I'm coming in!"

Steve glances up, but the sky's almost completely blocked out. Bits of light trickle through to where he stands alone with a—with a _dead god_, there's no way Loki's not—how's he gonna tell _Thor_—

Iron Man falls through the veil of darkness, but falters almost as soon as he comes into view. He's about five yards above the crater, buoyed and pitching in the wind. Here at the center, the loose dregs of Central Park spin around the three of them like a jagged, stuttering cage.

"Is that—," he asks haltingly, slowly touching down. The soft, mechanical sounds of the armor seem to echo in the dead space.

"Yeah." Steve firms his jaw, tightens his grip on his shield. Closes the final bit of distance to get a hand on Loki's shoulder.

Loki doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. But he trembles like a live wire, like there's a current twisting and howling inside him. Fighting to get out.

"Jesus," Steve breathes. "He's not—? Hawk, Widow, we need transport!"

"We can't get to you, Cap," Hawkeye says tightly. "Not until this shitstorm passes."

Tony, who's moved around to get a look at Loki's face, goes absolutely still. "Steve," he says, breathless and stunned, "oh _fuck_, Steve, this is—"

Steve leans in close, angles his head over a broad, bony shoulder. Looks where Tony's looking. Takes in a rough breath.

Blood leaks from Loki's mouth in main force, collects in the angles of his collar bones, smears over his lips and jaw almost to his ears. Coats his hair in tacky clumps, streams dried and cracked from his nose. Sticky and dark in the grooves of his fingernails, the delicate creases in the flesh of his hands.

Cut open like an autopsy, his slippery wet guts spill out even as he struggles to hold them in. Blood flows over his arms in hot pulses, paints them red to his elbows.

The only clean things about Loki are the blank gems of his eyes, the tears that rinse his face in pale, solitary streaks.

"We need to tranquilize him," Tony says, an uneven scrape in his a voice. "If his magic is going haywire because he's—because he's in agony and he can't control it—"

"I don't have any tranquilizers." Steve exhales, nauseated. He can feel bile rising in his throat.

"So knock him out." Hawkeye says, steady and practical.

"Will that work?"

"You have a vibranium shield," Natasha reminds him. Then: "Still no sign of Thor."

"Try Jane," Tony tells her.

"It makes sense that I would overlook the obvious," she deadpans.

"What about Bruce?" Tony tries helplessly, an edge of panic to his voice. "Bruce is a doctor, we could definitely use a doctor—"

"Shut up, Stark. We're doing all we can," Clint says. "Steve—bash Loki over the head. Do it now. Try not to kill him."

Iron Man glitters in the strained sunlight like dusty treasure, flashing clear and bright every time the shadows from Loki's storm pass him over. Tony's eyes are hidden, and the tight line of his mouth, but it doesn't matter. 'Cause Iron Man nods.

Steve raises his arm. Steve brings his shield down squarely on the back of Loki's head.

The wind surges, wild and raw.

Then, as if breathing out a stale lungful of air, the storm dissipates. Trees crumble from the sky, stones and trash and bits of bark. Someone's lawn chair, a catcher's mitt.

He doesn't realize 'til it's over, shield above his head as he cradles Loki's body, that Iron Man's bent protectively over them both.

When it's done, Loki limp in his arms, Steve carefully gets to his feet. Hauls up the long, rangy body like there's nothing left of it.

Iron Man has a hand on Steve's shoulder, probably helped pull him to his feet. Steve doesn't even remember. "Can you," he asks bleakly.

'Cause he can, of course he can, Iron Man reaches out and gently takes the body. "He should be heavier. He weighs _five hundred pounds_, why isn't—," he trails off, shaking his head. The distant sound of a jet engine curls toward them over the ruins of Central Park. "Come on, Cap. Let's—let's get this guy home."

* * *

"I am not qualified for this," Bruce says straightaway, raking his hands back through his hair. He looks exhausted, dressed in a bright green t-shirt and loose purple pajama pants. He looks like he just woke up. "I am not a medical doctor. There are intestines next to my spectrometer."

Natasha and Clint picked them up, Tony swearing low under his breath while Steve held a hand against Loki's abdomen. He did his best to keep everything in, to not lose his lunch in the process. A sharp twist in his gut reminds him that he hasn't actually eaten since breakfast, but he's—actually not interested in food right now.

Natasha's clearing off the lab table, including what's probably the spectrometer, while Clint follows behind and sterilizes the surface with a cloth and some rubbing alcohol. They are, perhaps, the most practical and efficient people Steve has ever encountered. He's so very glad they're his.

He still kinda wants to throw up though.

Bruce watches unhappily as Tony arranges Loki's unconscious body on the cold, stainless steel. He's still in the armor, but his faceplate's up. "Jesus christ, Tony."

"I know," Tony says, looking up at him sadly. There's a cut on the bridge of his nose. "Sorry I'm such a shit friend. To be fair, you knew what I was like going into this."

Bruce shakes his head, jaw tight. But his eyes are soft on Loki's mangled form.

"JARVIS," Tony says.

"Running comprehensive analyses now, Sir. I would recommend Doctor Banner begin by washing his hands. I can direct placement of the lower intestines from there."

Tony goes white as a sheet. While Steve debates whether or not he could go to him without giving everything away, Clint beats him to it. He hooks Tony by the elbow and says, conversationally, "So yeah, let's get you out of this monkey suit. I need to touch base with Fury anyway."

"Sure thing, applebutter," Tony answers, voice distant. Clint leads him outta the room, fishing his phone from his pocket. Steve watches them go.

"We've got this, Cap," Natasha says, tying her hair back. A few strands lay against her pale neck, a too-familiar contrast of crimson and cream that makes him sick. There are wet patches on her SHIELD blacks. "You don't have to be here."

"It's fine," Steve says firmly. 'Cause this is the goddamn price: it could be any of them on the table. This what it could cost them. Steve would always rather know than not know. You can't help anything, ignoring it.

"Suit yourself," Natasha murmurs without inflection.

Bruce pushes up his sleeves, tugs latex gloves over his nervous hands. Stares blankly at Loki's sallow, shadowed face.

He lets out a long breath. "Ready when you are, JARVIS."

"Very good, Doctor Banner. If you look to your left, you will find a pair of scissors suitable for cutting polyblend fabric..."

It takes about two hours in all. Natasha trims away the ruins of Loki's shirt, then offers steady, silent assistance while Bruce very carefully tucks the organs back in place. There's about twenty-five feet of intestines, a liver and most of a stomach. Cartilage around the sternum where it was crushed in a couple places.

The room's thick with the smell of metal and salt as they work. Steve keeps his lips pressed tight together. There's a small graphic on Bruce's shirt that says _HULK, SMASH! _that he stares at it when he's gotta look away. It warms him a little to see, 'cause Bruce hardly ever wears his own merchandise.

At one point Bruce says, despairing, "My hands are literally inside of his chest cavity, _how is he breathing_."

"Previous data suggests he will remain in stasis until his body stabilizes, at which point he will begin to heal rapidly," JARVIS replies crisply.

"Previous data?" Steve asks, raising his head to look at nothing.

"From his confrontation with Doctor Banner," JARVIS explains.

Bruce clears his throat. "It's true the guy can take a beating."

"Medical tape?" Natasha asks, looking up from where she's been arranging the cracked pieces of Loki's ribs around his lungs. Next to the stillness of her hands, the organs appear to be pulsing.

"In the cabinet above the sink," JARVIS tells her.

"Thanks," she says dryly.

"Of course, Miss Romanov."

They clean Loki up best they can, clinical and thorough, while Steve looks on. 'Cause he can't shake the feeling they're preparing a corpse for burial, he eventually looks away.

"I know he'll heal on his own," Bruce murmurs, shaking his head as Natasha slides an arm beneath Loki's broad, bony shoulders. They've bandaged him, wrapped him in a clean blanket 'cause he'd just bleed all over clothing. "With magic. But putting away his _guts_ without stitching them up first?"

"We stitched up the sections that were fully severed," she points out.

Bruce makes a face. "There is no way he isn't bleeding internally, Natasha. It doesn't make any sense."

"Magic," she says, shrugging. There's a bit of dirt on her cheek. Some blood on her wrist.

"While it is true his organs have suffered extensive trauma," JARVIS volunteers, "they are not hemorrhaging at this time, Doctor Banner."

"Who even knows how," Bruce mutters, gently scooping up Loki's long, limp legs.

"There is not enough blood remaining to do so."

"Fucking hell." Bruce sighs. He looks deeply uncomfortable, but his hands are steady as a drum.

Steve follows as they carefully take Loki to Thor's bedroom. Natasha rests her hand briefly on Bruce's back after settling Loki beneath the sheets. Then she turns to Steve.

"Get something to eat, Cap," she commands. Her eyes are hard, but by now Steve knows it's the kinda hard where she's trying to protect you. The kind where, if someone tells her you're lonely, she shows up and makes you take her out to lunch. He's not inclined to disobey.

She must be leveling a look at Bruce, too, 'cause Steve hears him on the way out: "I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"I think you mean the other thing," he huffs.

"No," is all she says.

Tony's in the kitchen, leaning back against his habitual cabinet. Clint, looking for all the world like a perched bird, sits on the counter with his legs crossed, peering over Tony's shoulder. They're studying something on a wide, bright tablet. They both look like they've showered, and the arc reactor glows through Tony's clean t-shirt like a teal sun behind a thin veil of cloud cover.

"Hey," Steve says awkwardly. "What are you guys doing?"

Clint glances up, his eyes catching a strange, ethereal blue from the screen. "Setting up a timeline. Trying to piece together what the hell happened. Fury sent us what SHIELD was able to record, so we're corroborating stories for the press release, the official file, and the redacted file."

"What've you got so far?" Steve asks.

"A change of clothes for you," Clint says flatly. "You're covered in blood, get out of here."

Tony looks up then, his frown splitting into a grimace as he takes in Steve's appearance. "Second floor, first door on the left." He pauses. "Just, uh. Let your uniform soak in the tub for awhile when you're done. There's industrial-grade dish soap concentrate mixed in with the body wash, so throw some of that in, too."

Clint looks at him like he's nuts. "Dish soap, Stark? Weirdo."

"Dude, engine oil," Tony raises his eyebrows. "Seriously."

"Dude, I believe you," Clint parrots back, reaching around Tony's arm to slide his fingers across the screen. Then he glances up at Steve. "What you still doing here?"

"Natasha told me to eat something. She intimidates me," Steve says, shrugging. "Thought I'd bring something back for her and Bruce, too."

Tony snorts and Clint, rolling his eyes, hops down off the counter. "Go shower. I'll feed the animals." He sticks his head in the pantry, casts around. "Gimme twenty minutes and I'll bring you a sandwich or something."

Steve looks over at Tony, who glances curiously at Clint's back before meeting Steve's eyes again. Then he winks, flashes a wicked smile that goes straight to Steve's gut. "Room service, Barton?" He asks, expression at odds with his light tone. "Who do I have to blow to get on_ that_ list?"

"You should be so lucky," Barton laughs.

* * *

Steve takes a shower in Tony's huge bathroom, stands under the water 'til the water runs clear. The heavy-duty body wash leaves his skin red and tender, but does the job. The only stains left are in his memory, and those aren't things you can just wash away.

He's just pulling on the pair of sweats he found on the bed when someone knocks at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Clint steps inside.

"So I have soup for you," he says, setting a plate and a bowl on Tony's desk. "Also grilled cheese."

Steve straightens, the t-shirt slung over his arm. "What kinda soup?"

Clint raises his eyebrows. "Tomato. Naturally."

Steve shakes his head. "My grandma used to make me that all the time," he says, when he means to say, Thank you. "Me and Bucky. Before she died."

"Mine, too," Clint replies. "Minus the Bucky part. There was only me, and I didn't stick around very long." His eyes narrow suddenly on Steve's chest. "The hell are those from?"

Steve glances down. He hadn't really taken a look at himself, getting outta the shower, but his torso's crossed over with mostly-faded bruises. He doesn't heal as fast when he doesn't eat. "The trees, probably. Maybe the chain-link fence," he says, pulling the shirt on over his head. It's a bit tight around his shoulders, but the fabric's warm and comfortable. Smells kinda like Tony.

"Stark's all banged up, too," Clint says, irritated. "If I didn't know better, I'd think he was running out on Pepper with the fucking Hulk. I don't know why he bothers with a padded undersuit at all, you should've seen the bruises on him."

Steve coughs soup outta his windpipe. Clint raises an eyebrow. "All right there, buddy?"

"Hot," Steve mumbles. "You really think Tony would—?"

Steve's saved from asking a very stupid, very telling question by the sound of thunder splitting the sky. Within moments, Thor's voice echoes through every hall.

"Party time," Clint sighs.

* * *

"_You will take me to him at once_." Thor commands. There's an undercurrent of heat, the crack and snap of restless, electric energy.

"Easy, big guy," Tony's saying. His hands are up, conciliatory and maybe defensive. He doesn't look afraid, though. "We need to go over a few things first."

"You mark my words, Stark," Thor says, voice gone cold as Steve's ever heard it. "If my brother draws his final breaths while we stand wasting ours—"

Natasha quietly and deliberately shifts her weight. She's not standing between Thor and Tony, but in half a lethal second she could be.

"Thor," Steve says gently. Thor turns, his face caught between the bottomless canyons of fury and grief. "Loki's alive. We've done all we can for him, and now we're working out what happened."

"You are ever my friend, Steve Rogers," Thor says thickly. His big shoulders dip, and the room suddenly seems a whole lot emptier.

Tony crosses his arms, like he doesn't know how to touch someone without baiting or teasing them. Like he's got no idea how you console somebody.

Steve meets Tony's eyes over Thor's bowed head, gives a short nod.

"This is what we've got," Tony says, holding up his tablet. For what it's worth, his tone's a little kinder. "Based on security footage, SHIELD intel, and JARVIS's tracking software—"

"_Tracking software_?" Natasha asks sharply.

"Obviously it's shit if I can't ever find anyone," Tony says pointedly, staring Natasha down like she couldn't kill him where he stands in seconds. He's either really brave or really goddamn stupid. "Just another example of R&D's incompetence and why I have to do everything myself—"

"Watch yourself, Stark," she warns. But she doesn't shift the protective stance of her body away from his.

Tony clears his throat. "So Clint's out back on the range, Bruce is in his room, Thor is MIA—"

"I misunderstand," Thor says weakly.

"We didn't know where you were," Tony clarifies impatiently. "Natasha's gone, I'm gone, Steve's gone. No one even knows Loki leaves."

Steve glances over at Bruce, who's hovering near the stove making tea. He's got six mugs set out and a big pot of water boiling. He looks pale and small. Steve asks him, "You didn't hear anything?"

"I was asleep," Bruce sighs, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The motion tilts up his glasses, loosens them. Makes him look frail and groundless. "Stoned out of my mind. An earthquake wouldn't have woken me up."

"I guess we should probably cut back on that," Tony mentions, mouth twisted in an unhappy line.

"Probably, yeah," Bruce says. "Don't worry about it. We knew it was a temporary solution."

Tony flashes Bruce a crooked smile, then turns back to the room at large. "As far as we can tell, there weren't any witnesses. He can teleport, so no one saw him getting from point A to point B. Also, that part of the Park was mostly deserted and the storm kicked up pretty much immediately." His lip twists. "We don't have any idea whether or not this was intentional, but it makes damage control easier."

"Fury's gonna go with unseasonable weather," Clint adds, "or, if it comes out that someone did see Loki, he'll say it was one of the weather or elemental mutants. Charles Xavier will back us if we say it was an accident during a training exercise. Public opinion of him is high, so his reputation wouldn't suffer nearly as much as, say, SHIELD's might." He smiles humorlessly. It looks outta place on him. "Especially if word got out Loki's back."

Steve's not all that comfortable with blatantly lying to the public, even less so if Charles would take the blame. But it's not like they have plans to announce Loki's new position within the Avengers, and most people wouldn't recognize him without the armor, the horns, or the spear. Far as New Yorkers are concerned, he's just another tall, dark-haired guy slinging magic.

Since that's a relatively common thing these days. Steve's head hurts.

Tony nods. "While I think we can all agree that, superficially, this looks like Loki hitting up old habits again as soon as we turn our collective back—"

"You would _dare—_," Thor seethes, but Tony holds up a hand again and keeps talking.

"Hang on, hang on. I'm saying what it _looks_ like. We had the option of giving Loki over to SHIELD custody for medical treatment, but we didn't. I want you to understand why."

Thor looks at Tony for a long, quiet moment. Then he says, "SHIELD does not look kindly upon my brother."

"No," Natasha agrees.

"They would, perhaps, have little concern for his grievous injuries."

"Very little," Clint says, watching Thor with sharp eyes.

"And JARVIS has more data on you guys than SHIELD does," Tony says. "I can promise you that we did the best we could under the circumstances."

"Tell me what has come to pass," Thor says desperately, letting his shoulders fall. He looks brokenly at each of them. Steve's gotta fight not to look away.

"That's just it," Tony says, reaching over to take a mug of tea from Bruce's hands. He takes a long swallow. "There's no sign of a struggle. If he was fighting anyone, there isn't a fucking fingernail left of them." He takes another sip of his tea, forehead wrinkled in thought. Steve fights the urge to lean in and kiss it away. "There's only Loki and a bunch of dead fish."

Steve wishes Asgard would stop sending all their princes to him. He's doing a terrible job keeping them safe. He can still see Thor in his mind's eye, suspended in the air like a ragdoll on hooks; Loki, a hunched red mass holding his insides close. Just more images Steve's gotta keep 'cause the stains won't wash away.

"If there's something you should be telling us," Tony goes on, surprisingly delicate even as darkness moves behind his eyes, "about Loki's possible affinity for—self harm."

"He would not ever," Thor says softly. It's not the immediate, angry denial Steve might've expected. "Though many things may be said of him, my brother is too covetous by far to simply—to wish all away." He opens his hands when he says _all_, like the empty air in his palms is an eternity. Who knows? For someone like him, maybe it can be. "There is a scaled beast on Asgard our family often likens him to: it has a hoard which can be taken or stolen by the very brave, the very strong, or the very foolish. But it willingly lets go nothing."

"When he wakes up," Steve says finally, "we can ask him."

"When he awakens," Thor says solemnly, taking the mug Bruce passes over to him, "the two of us shall together journey to Asgard and seek the chambers of healing under care of our mother. We will return to you after, to battle beside you with our full strength."

It's Bruce who eventually guides Thor outta the room, explaining in quiet tones about the damage, the surgery. What they had to do, what condition Loki's in. He keeps his hand on Thor's back the whole time, easy, steady, reassuring.

Clint watches them go, drinking from his own mug of tea, and Natasha watches Clint. Her eyes are critical, like she's looking him over to make sure everything's still in working order.

Tony stares into his cup. It looks empty from where Steve's standing.

"Do you think Fury kept Loki's part in this quiet from the Council?" Steve asks wearily.

"Hard to say. He'd definitely try to. We're always making him look bad." Clint smirks, but there's an edge to it. "He didn't argue when Natasha told him we'd be treating Loki's injuries ourselves."

"Depending on which side of the bed he's on with the Council and the mutants," Natasha says, taking Tony's mug away with light fingers, "he might just blame the damage on Magneto and call it a wash." She starts running soapy dishwater. "Either way, it's possible we're off the hook for now."

"I'll see if he has an update for us," Clint says, drumming his palms idly on the counter. Steve wonders if he misses his bow like a limb when he hasn't got it. It's how Steve feels about his shield. It's probably how Thor feels about his hammer.

"You do that," Natasha says. "I need to change my clothes." Clint fishes his phone from his back pocket and follows her out.

Steve wanders over to the sink for something to do with his hands.

"Do you need any help?" Tony asks when they're completely alone.

"No," Steve says.

Tony snags a towel anyway, starts drying the dishes in silence. When Steve glances at him edgewise, there are tight, pensive lines around his eyes. Steve waits.

"So we're pretty sure something happened to trigger him," Tony murmurs, getting water all over the counter. "Then he got as far away from everyone as he could before he started ripping his guts out. Then his magic went pear-shaped."

"Any idea what it could've been?"

"Well, he talked to Thor," Tony sighs. "Then Thor left. They didn't look like they were arguing in the footage, though."

"He'll wake up. We can ask." They work side-by-side in silence for a time.

"I didn't mean to be a dick," Tony eventually says. "Earlier."

"Which time?" Steve sets the wet, clean dishes on the dish rack. Tony picks at them and sorta dries them off.

"Well." Tony pauses, appears to think about it. Smudges his fingers all over the ceramic. "All continuous instances, I suppose. I mean, it's pretty rough getting shot down by Captain America—"

"For chrissake, Tony, I wasn't—"

"—but I guess this whole thing came out of left field for me." His lips are flatlined when he looks up at Steve, like there's no heart in him at all. "I should have expected it."

"No," Steve says, catching Tony's hands in his own. He honestly doesn't know if Tony's still talking about Loki or not. If maybe he's talking about this thing between them instead. In either case, Steve takes away the plate Tony's been towelling dry so furiously. He sets it safely on the counter where it will live to serve another day.

"I get these ideas of how I think things should go. Then I think that's how they _will _go. But I'm actually not the best judge of character," Tony admits. Like it's a weakness, like it's true, like it's got anything to do with anything. "It's gotten me into some pretty fucked-up situations."

"I'll let you in on a secret," Steve says, taking Tony's towel and folding it neatly so it'll dry out. "Even when you call it right, shit still hits the fan."

Tony swallows, throat working. Then he grabs Steve's wrist and stares at the floor.

"Here," Steve murmurs quietly, just as Tony pleads, "Let me—"

The front door opens and they pause, listening. They separate just as she walks in the kitchen.

Sky-high heels and a soft gray suit. Pink lipstick. Her coppery hair twisted up in a bun, pale green eyeshadow and matching paint on her flawless fingernails.

She sets her briefcase on the kitchen table, her movements soft with exhaustion but graceful all the same.

"Pepper," Tony says in a strangled kinda way. He takes a few steps toward her, reflexively, 'cause he loves her. Steve knows he loves her.

Steve starts putting half-dry dishes away.

Pepper moves her arms awkwardly like she wants to hug him, but Tony doesn't go any closer. "Hi, Tony. Steve," she says, sparing him a glance and a small smile.

"What are you doing here?" Tony asks. It sounds almost accusatory, and Steve winces. There's so much wrong here.

"I don't want to fight with you about this," she says gently. Steve tries not to watch, but he's gotta keep turning back to grab more dishes. "I know you worry about me. But I have too much to handle on the East Coast to be out of New York right now." She takes a few steps closer to him, slowly bridges the distance. "Loki isn't even conscious right now. I had to hear that from JARVIS, Tony. You haven't called for almost a week."

"We have a lot on our plate," Tony says, hands restless at his sides.

"Don't you think that's something I should know about?" Pepper counters. Then she reaches out, catches the edge of his palm with feather-light fingers. "Do you just expect me to stay in Malibu until you decide it's safe for me to come home? We've talked about this, Tony. You have to stop keeping things from me."

"I'll just," Steve mutters, leaving. No one watches him go.

* * *

He locks himself in a second-floor bathroom. Takes a minute to splash water on his face, brace his hands on the counter. Stare at his reflection in the mirror, try to clear all the junk outta his mind, pull himself together.

We're awful people who save people, Steve thinks wretchedly. It's the best he can come up with. Tony says, _I'm leaving Pepper for you_, and then he looks at Pepper like he loves her more than his own goddamn hands. Steve can't fucking take it, even though it'd be best for everyone if Tony never so much as touched Steve for the rest of their lives. If they could pretend none of this ever happened.

Steve leans against the counter 'til he's got his breath under control, 'til his pulse is back to normal. Then he goes to check in on Loki.

The blankets are loose around his waist, the bandages on his chest spotted with blood. His dark hair fans over the pillow like a shadow, a heavy contrast to his snowy face.

Thor's stretched out next to him in the king-sized bed, the only other person in the room. He's got one hand propping his head up, the other curled gently around Loki's wrist.

"Hello," Steve greets, mouth dry. They look liked matched set, imply something Steve can't make sense of, can't shake. While he's never believed you walk around with half a heart 'til you meet someone who fits, he's prepared to accept that maybe they do things different on other planets. That's what watching them feels like, to him: changing your mind.

"Steve," Thor murmurs, voice gravelly. He doesn't raise his eyes. "His pulse is weak, but steadily rising." His thumb moves in small circles over the center of Loki's palm, which he raises to his chest. "Forgive me. I was told that you risked yourself, rushing to his aid. I have not expressed my gratitude." Solemnly, Thor inclines his head. "I thank you, Steve Rogers. A more worthy companion I have not met in centuries."

"It's fine," Steve says, pulling up a chair. "You'd do it for any of us."

"That may well be," Thor murmurs, watching Loki's still face. "Though you would not be indebted to me for such a thing."

"So you understand, then," Steve says, "when I say you don't owe us anything."

Thor looks up at him with surprise. The smallest of smiles touches his mouth, though it fades when he glances back at his brother.

"It was ever Loki's lot to be miscast by those around him," he says after several minutes. "To this very day, I am unable to determine whether or not that is his intention always." He swallows, reaches forward to touch his brother's hair. "He has certainly played me the fool on countless occasions."

"Thor," Steve rasps, uncomprehending. He finds his eyes are wet, his throat tight. He's got no idea why.

"Leave us," Thor says softly. "I would contemplate matters."

Steve nods, standing. Shuts the door quietly behind him.

* * *

It's dark when he steps outside to clear his head, warm enough but overcast. He can't see any stars, and the moon follows him in hazy pieces.

Steve shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed sweats, walks, and doesn't think about anything. Focuses on the feel of the sidewalk under his bare feet, the steady beat of his lungs. The distant sound of the wind in the trees.

After about half an hour, the sky opens up for the second time today. Soaked to the skin, the rain streaming down his face and beading on his lashes, he hasn't got a damn thing sorted out in his head. But he feels cleaner, somehow, like a darkness has been rinsed away, even if nothing's changed at all. He takes his time walking back.

A thin crack of lightning splits the sky for a few bare instants, silent and faraway, as Steve comes up the drive. He stares up at the dark outline of the Stark mansion with water on his cheeks. There are people he cares about in this house, but right now it just looks like a relic from an earlier time. A fossil that recognizes another fossil and asks, What are you doing here?

Two shadows move together in one of the upstairs windows. Bitterly, Steve thinks: so much for being almost-faithful.

Pepper is Tony's girlfriend, regardless of anyone else he's sleeping with or what promises he's made. Tony's the bad guy, Steve's too selfish to turn him down, and Pepper's the one getting the short end of the stick. Steve pushes a hand back through his hair, sluicing rain down the back of his neck. He's not being fair. He's got no right to feel like he's losing something he never had to begin with.

But he goes on feeling it, right up 'til he walks inside and finds Tony's leaning against an end table. His eyes are down, his arms crossed. There's a half-empty glass at his elbow, but he's not sharing shadows with anyone.

Steve's relief dissolves under his guilt, and what the heck else is new?

Tony looks up at him, jaw tight, like he's been waiting here a while. "Where have you been," he asks flatly. Then his forehead folds in on itself. "Why are you wet? Did you fall in a lake? Where did you even find one?"

"Went for a walk," Steve says, frowning. He moves closer, takes in the deep crescents cut under Tony's eyes and the faint edge of alcohol clinging to him like perfume. The most sleep Tony's got in maybe two days has been the couple hours in Steve's bed, and Steve's got no idea when he last ate something. Probably room service, he thinks, resigned. Yesterday morning seems like a lifetime ago. "It's raining."

"That would do it," Tony sighs. "Come on, I have towels."

Steve follows close behind, wondering if he's allowed to touch Tony's hand the way Pepper did. He never knows where the goalposts are, feels like they move around. There's a probably an analogy here somewhere: the closer Tony is to Pepper, the further he is from Steve.

But maybe Steve needs rest, too, 'cause that isn't any kinda metaphor. That's just a damn fact from every angle. "Loki wake up yet?"

"No," Tony answers. His shoulders are sharp in the semi-darkness of the hall. The only light comes to them from a lamp in the den as they pass by. He sounds worried. "He's not healing, either. Thor said he should be. I don't know what that means."

Steve ducks his head, lips pursed. There's a hot, desperate part of him that wonders if he'll ever be able to save anybody, if it's even possible to win the long game. Maybe you can manage it the first time around, or the eighth or the twenty-seventh. But one day you're not gonna make it. One day he'll miss Bucky's hand by inches, or his date with Peggy by decades. One day he'll close the portal too soon for Tony to fall back down to Earth.

Steve feels brittle, bone-dry even as his clothes cling heavy and clammy, drag him down. Just 'cause you save someone a hundred times doesn't mean you can save them the hundred-and-first. It's an endless circle of close-calls and eventually _Steve will lose_.

"I'll get you some pajamas," Tony says then, sliding his fingertips into the soft joint of Steve's elbow. His voice banishes the darkness like a charm, and there's gold in his eyes again when he glances up. It takes Steve a minute to realize they're in one of the spare rooms. "You're sleeping here tonight." Tony grabs a towel outta the closet, throws it on the bed. "And—if you think you can manage—I'd fucking love it if you'd stop looking like someone murdered your dog."

"I never had a dog," Steve finally says, distracted and troubled with his heart in his throat. "I was allergic."

Tony studies him for moment. Then he says, somewhat stiffly, "Loki's not dead yet. What happened to him sucks, but. I mean, he'll probably be okay."

"I wasn't thinking about Loki, Tony," Steve says. The cold's finally starting to creep in, makes him shudder involuntarily.

Tony frowns, lips in a flat line, and starts to tug at Steve's t-shirt.

"Thank you," Steve says quietly after a moment or so. "For the new uniform. I never said."

"You're welcome," Tony mutters. "The soak got most of the blood out. It's in the washer right now."

"I appreciate it," Steve says as Tony manhandles the shirt the rest of the way off. It hits the floor with a loud slap.

"You should. I put a dense, flexible polymer plate between the layers of fabric. It'll stop bullets without weighing you down. Won't shatter on impact, will move with you but retain its shape." His fingers skid over Steve's shoulders, dip beneath his arms. Like he's checking for damage, for other things he oughta fix. 'Cause he likes to make things better, Steve remembers warmly. "I had to leave some places open, though, for mobility. I, uh, meant to brief you earlier. Before you actually had to wear it in the field."

Steve fixes his eyes on the muted glow of the arc reactor, reaches out his hands. Tony's close, radiates heat. Steve trails his cool fingers over Tony's bare hip where his shirt's shifted, where his belly shows.

Tony clears his throat, his eyes falling to Steve's mouth and going dark. "So—so you should have full range of motion—did you notice?—but, um. Don't get shot or stabbed in your armpits. Or your groin, or the backs of your knees or the, the inside of your elbows." He ghosts his fingers over each of these places in turn, working his way down. He slides off Steve's sweatpants as he goes, palming the curve of Steve's backside, leaning in briefly to press a kiss against the half-hard shaft of Steve's cock. Then he straightens with a graceless jerk. "You'll be more than formidable against a head-on attack. Just. Don't let anyone sneak up on you."

Tony's voice has dropped steadily 'til it's just a breathy whisper, suspended between them in the air. Steve shifts, allows himself to be gently towelled off. His cock aches dully between his legs.

"I'll be right back," Tony whispers, pushing him down on the bed. His hand twitches in the direction of Steve's thighs, but he doesn't touch him again. He gathers up the wet clothes instead. "Don't move, soldier boy."

He must doze for a while, 'cause next thing he knows there's an arm under his back, a warm pressure moving the blankets and sheets around.

"Tony?" He mumbles.

"Shh," Tony says. "Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Time's it?" Steve asks, sighing. He hadn't meant to fall asleep for the five minutes Tony was gone.

"About eleven." Fifteen minutes, then.

"Is Loki—"

"Still breathing."

"Okay." Steve shifts onto his side. The sheets feel wonderful against his bare skin, the angle of his hip, the swell of his butt.

Tony looks pained. "You should put these on," he says, motioning to the flannel pants he brought back with him. " I will never leave this room if you don't, and I have work to do."

Steve's cock swells again, jumps slightly at the heavy want in his voice. Judging by the way Tony's eyes cloud over, Steve figures he notices.

But then Steve props himself up on his elbows and asks, "What kinda work? If there's anything I should do—"

"You should stay right here and rest," Tony says. Then, softer, "And—maybe let me look at you for a little while."

"I—," Steve fumbles his words, feels safe and wanted beneath Tony's intense gaze. Feels like everything's okay.

Tony's hands move feather-light over Steve's shoulders and arms. A nail catching lightly at his nipple, the line of a thumb sinking into the muscular ridges of his hip, his thigh. The five-finger grooves of his rib cage.

Pepper's _here_, she's somewhere upstairs in this very house, and Steve doesn't fucking care. He gets his hands around Tony's ribs, thumbs the soft, thin t-shirt. If he press in, he can feel the rapid thrum of Tony's heartbeat just under his bones.

Tony leans close, fully-clothed down to his Wolverine socks, and buries his face in Steve's throat. Breathes him in.

"Gimme a minute," he says, voice muffled, arms stealing around Steve's waist. Steve shifts, hugs Tony tightly against his chest. Presses his jaw into that soft, brown hair. He smells like sweat and metal. Steve never wants to let go.

"Okay. Okay," Tony says, wriggling free and getting some distance between them. He keeps a hand on the side of Steve's neck. "Right. So I'm going to tuck you in—"

"I'm not a _kid_—"

"I'm going to _tuck you in_," Tony repeats, yanking the covers out from under Steve's body and settling them snug around him again. "Since you refuse to be any kind of decent and cover up this festival of carnality—"

"Festiv—ugh." Steve shakes his head, but he can't get the smile off his face.

"—and since we. I mean, we take care of each other," Tony says. He looks earnestly at Steve's face. "We do that," he repeats, but he says it like it's a question. Like maybe he doesn't know.

"We do that," Steve tells him firmly.

"Okay. Good." He relaxes a bit. "I won't be up all night," he says seriously. "Just—give me an hour or two. Then I'll come back and we'll both get some sleep, yeah?"

Steve motions gingerly toward the ceiling, does his best to keep his voice neutral, "You're gonna be missed, Tony."

"We've got a butchered god on the ground floor, a class five mutant in bed with our Homeland Security organization, and an unmedicated rage monster that would really like for me to finalize a working alternative for his effective but incapacitating drug habit," he says, counting off on his fingers. "Pepper would find it _incredibly suspicious_ if she saw me at all in the next twenty hours." His eyes slide over Steve's bulky form, heavy and thoughtful. "Thirty hours. Thirty-seven hours."

"If you say so." Steve can't even find it in him to get angry. The day's been too long, too draining by half. Physical exertion is nothing to him; it's everything else that makes Steve wanna turn himself off for awhile.

Tony's mostly the opposite, though. He can work through whatever you throw at him, right up 'til his body gives out from exhaustion. Steve wonders if he and Tony balance each other other in a weird sorta way, or if they're both just deeply flawed people.

"I'm really the worst boyfriend ever," Tony whispers after a while, voice rough. "It's no wonder you don't wanna date me."

Steve reaches for him, takes his hand. Squeezes. Tony's a little drunk and a lot exhausted, and Steve wants him to stay here. To sleep, to touch. But all he says is, "See you in an hour."

* * *

"Right. That's—right," Tony says. He presses Steve's hand to his mouth, his lips warm and dry and soft. "An hour."

It's about four in the morning when Steve wakes up alone. The clothes Tony brought are still on the bed, so he pulls them on with quick, mechanical movements. The shirt's tight around his chest, the pants kinda loose. He cinches them at the waist and pads quietly into the hall.

It's entirely possible Tony ended up in his own bed, so Steve doesn't look for him. He goes to check in on Loki instead, see if Thor's gone to sleep yet.

He hangs back when he reaches the half-open door. Thor's not on the bed this time. Instead, he's got a chair pulled up, head bowed over Loki's hand as he holds it gently in both of his own.

Of anyone else in the world, Steve's probably got the most in common with Thor—they're both so outta sync with the present era, even if it's from different directions, that they may as well be on equal footing. Unbidden, the thought crosses his mind that the same's true for Loki.

Then he realizes Loki's awake. There's a dry rasp and a fragile bracelet of words, a flash of green.

"You swore to protect me," Thor's replying quietly around a ragged, worried smile. "And yet allowed yourself such grievous injury."

"Thor," Loki whispers, voice dry as dust, "I _was_ protecting you."

Thor smooths his fingers over Loki's thin wrist in anxious circles. "So must we return to Asgard," Thor growls, like it's an argument they've been having for hours. "That the healers may put you to rights, that you may fight at my side once more."

"No," Loki says. Steve's gotta strain to hear him. "You think I would lead _them_ along the straight path to Asgard? To their coveted prize? You think I would set loose those forces upon your home?" He coughs, weak and brittle. Thor seizes his shoulders, holds him through it. With a sick twist to his stomach, Steve realizes there's blood on Loki's mouth. "It was all that I could do to keep them at bay as-was."

"It is your home as well," Thor insists. "Father will seal the portal, or Heimdall. I yet believe Jane could—"

Loki turns his face away from his brother, makes a soft, complicated sound. It takes a moment for Steve to realize it's a derisive snort.

Thor looks startled, but his tone's gentle. "Loki—"

"I am not here to suffer your dalliances," Loki says in his sharp voice. But it comes out all wrong, cracked and heaving and distorted. Anger and agony are at war in the lines of his face, in the rigidness of his limbs. In the way his torso curves in, fetal and helpless like a sick little kid in a cold church.

"You are here because I wish it," Thor says soberly, reaching out to rest a heavy hand on Loki's narrow rib cage. "And because you wish it."

Steve raps gently on the doorframe.

When Thor looks up, there are dark, heavy smudges around his eyes. Wearily, Steve supposes that answers the question of whether or not he's gotten any rest.

"Steve," he smiles wearily.

"Thor. Loki," Steve greets. He takes a few steps in, but doesn't sit down.

Loki shifts up to look at him, offers a tiny nod. His breath comes shallow and his fingers twist into the sheets, but he closes his eyes when Thor combs a hand through the dark, tangled mess of his hair.

"We couldn't get ahold of you earlier," Steve says to Thor. He tries not to sound accusing. "Wanna tell me where you were?"

Aggrieved, Thor meets Steve's blue eyes with his own. "I was calling on the Lady Jane of Foster," he explains. "She is possessed of a singularly kind and gentle nature. I had hoped she might assist us with present matters." He pauses, searching through the folds of his cloak.

It's probably one of the weirdest things Steve's ever seen, a man in magical armor with a magical hammer at his waist pulling out a smartphone.

Thor runs his thumb over the smooth screen, puzzled. "In the great basins of the New Mexico, though our mighty cell phones did battle with valor and honor, they could not overcome the brute strength and sly trickery of the intermittent service towers."

Thor went to see Jane, had poor reception. Steve sifts through for the important parts. "'Present matters'?"

Thor opens his mouth to speak, but doesn't. He glances down at his brother instead.

Loki doesn't look at either of them, but after a moment he says: "A halfmoon ago. When I divined the orchestrative nature of Director Fury's involvement with Magneto's attack."

"Yes," Steve says. Trepidation swirls in him like an illness, rises bitter in the back of his throat.

Loki exhales carefully. "My association with the Chitauri required a link forged between myself and their leader. It is how we communicated. It is how I accessed energies and abilities which were not my own." He raises his hands, circles his slender fingers together over his chest. "I do not otherwise traverse the realm of thought and psychic control."

"He speaks truly," Thor says, as though he expects Steve to think otherwise.

"The caveat," Loki continues, eyes snapping up over Steve's, "should I have somehow failed to uphold my end of the bargain, was that the link could be reshaped into a portal. I was able to seal it when Stark destroyed their central ship; I am exceptionally resourceful, and in that moment they were weak." He pauses. "However..."

Steve feels a pulse shudder through him. It's a long moment before he recognizes it as fear. "You had to unseal it. When you read Fury's mind."

Thor leans forward angrily. "This is—is this _true_?"

You don't know? Steve thinks sadly.

"Yes." Loki says simply. "And now I am, effectively, both journey and destination for a collective of powerful adversaries desirous yet of the tesseract. I imagine they mean to apply methods varied and extreme to encourage my... _cooperation_ in locating it."

"Let them make any attempt," Thor rumbles fiercely. There's a blackness to his gaze, a bloodlust and a kinda hate that comes from loving someone enough to kill for them.

"You outta your mind?" Steve asks finally, searching Loki's pained face. "What part of tearing down your only line of defense against those guys seemed like a good idea?"

"I harbor grave concerns," Loki says flatly, "when a man who deigns command myself and mine offers neither explanation nor rationale for his actions."

"It couldn't've been worth this," Steve says, motioning to the nightmare of Loki's abdomen. "We would've found out about Fury and SHIELD on our own."

"I will not risk Thor's safety," Loki says, easing up onto his elbows. "I will not leave his fate in the hands of mortals, to be manipulated at their pleasure."

"You really think this is better?" Steve asks seriously. "Making yourself an open door for '_powerful adversaries_'? That ain't a risk to Thor's safety?"

Loki presses his lips together thoughtfully. "But they cannot come through at present. As I am so damaged, it would likely kill me. Then they would have no gate at all. Their lead to the tesseract would disappear." Patiently, he studies his hands. "So I will remain this way for a time."

Thor grits his teeth. "Loki—"

"I will remain this way for a time," Loki repeats firmly, even as his breath hitches. "And perhaps your—Jane—can seal their link once more. Perhaps destroy it entirely."

Steve's suspected, like Tony's suspected, but now he's sure.

Thor stares at his brother, eyes wide and endlessly, achingly blue. "_You did this_?"

Loki says tiredly. He even reaches out and touches Thor's tightly curled knuckles. "It would not have been my first choice, had I another."

* * *

Steve's been sitting in his guestroom for the better part of an hour, coffee gone cold on the bedside table, when he notices. Under the TV remote, his name scrawled on top in a loose hand, is a neatly folded note. He wonders when Tony left it there.

He reaches for it hesitantly, fingers careful as they slip inside, open it up. He studies the neat type, surprised, 'cause he'd almost forgotten he'd asked for it.

At the very bottom of the list of names and addresses, there's a single line of text: _His secrets have secrets. But he left this one right where I would find it_.


End file.
